


Alive

by TaM_tHe_JaM



Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Anxious Ghost, Destiny, Destiny 2, EXO - Freeform, F/F, F/M, Hive, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Loss of Control, M/M, Mind Manipulation, Other, PTSD, Rebirth, Recovery, Resurrection, Romance, Shipping, Team Bonding, Team as Family, Violence, anxious character, awoken - Freeform, gambit - Freeform, ghost - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:26:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 35,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27839821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TaM_tHe_JaM/pseuds/TaM_tHe_JaM
Summary: Banshee-44 struggles with the memory loss and object permanence of many resets, and his wife is falling apart.A plague of tainted Light influences an Awoken cult to corrupt the Last City through its Guardians for the Rapture.Adiv, a very anxious Ghost, finds his Chosen, and Zadie makes her way forward to becoming an experienced Guardian amongst a Fireteam of other older Guardians, finding love, betrayal, and manipulation.Cayde-6 is losing his love to a form of mental degradation. Bolts-3 is tormented by a growing grip on her mind and visions of the life before. Rivet-1 and Aryeh Lev struggle to understand Bolts-3's plight.
Relationships: Canon/OC, Cayde-6/Female Guardian (Destiny), Guardian/Guardian (Destiny), OC/OC, Original Character(s)/Original Character(s)
Kudos: 3





	1. Prologue - "Awakening"

**Author's Note:**

> PSA: Looking back, I’ve realized I misspelt Adiv a LOT. Please don’t be confused. I was probably tired. Now I can’t figure out how to edit the chapter. From here on out, once Chapter 2 is posted, it will be spelt “Adiv”. Thank you for your patience, and sorry if I confused y’all.
> 
> So. First Destiny fanfic. First fanfic I'm posting here.
> 
> I know some things might be odd, or incorrect, or even a little iffy to some of you. But, frankly? I wanna have some fun with this. Lots and lots of fun. I rarely see long Destiny fics. I never found one past 30 chapters. I don't know if mine will go past that, or if this will be found, but I want to explore some things. I wanna write. I want feedback, I want to see interactions with my ideas. And this is the way to start.
> 
> As you can see, there's a lot of writing below. Given this is my first A/N but not my first fanfic read on AO3, I have a general idea of how this'll look.
> 
> Please, be gentle. I know it's a bit weird to say, but I have Autism, and am very sensitive. Critique welcome, just.. not slurs or hate. Please. I'm very nervous about those things.
> 
> As you can probably tell by the length of the prologue alone, yes, I'm very, very keen to long chapters if I can help it. If you like that sort of thing, I suggest reading "In Living Memory", a Dead by Daylight fanfic that's 1Mil+ words long. It's pretty quality, and I enjoy it, so if you're a fan of longer works or reading in-between work updates, that one's finished. Go check it out after reading if you want!! (Not by me)

Prologue - Ghost

_**Day One** _

Lonely was the one who traveled without a Partner. A common suffrage of the Traveler’s many scattered drones. Artificial Intelligence, Ghosts were called. But there was nothing artificial about intelligence, or emotion.

For a long time, the almost demanding consideration of calling himself “Traveler” had piqued his interest for a name. But he’d wait. Even if it paired well with the amount of distance Ghosts and their fellow brethren would cover between planets and vasts lands, or even if it fit the criteria of how Ghosts were essentially parts of the Traveler itself - albeit scattered, confused and hurt in a strange way that lessened overtime with experience as individuals from the sudden separation - it didn’t seem right to give himself a name.

He is “Ghost.” Just as many others still were and once had been. Some Ghosts named themselves, or accepted nicknames, taking to them and their comforting legitimacy. Many waited, restless and eager to be gifted a name through the adored Risen they’d come to painstakingly discover and cherish.

But Ghost was alone. And so he’d stay Ghost until he became something else. Humans, Awoken, Exo - they took names for granted, sometimes. There’s always a way one identifies themselves, but a name? An official, great name? Something to single out the being, and not generalize? “Look at Ophiuchus, what a fine Guardian he raised! His Partner protects the City itself, and even helped to build its walls! Such a smart, cunning Warlock he rezzed!”

The feeling that would come with the discovery of his Risen, as he’d come to pin down through joyous boast of other Ghosts, was like the Light itself would rez him as a Risen.

If he even came to find his.

Nonsense. Ghost adjusted his shell around his core with squeezed mannerisms, pupil movements shifting in an almost awkward manner. Soon enough. Soon. It would happen soon. He’d told himself that for centuries, but it’ll happen soon. Soon.

Ghost didn’t necessarily like to admit it, but sometimes he thought the feeling would be as if his Risen found… well, him. Even if Ghost was the one doing all the searching, the wandering, it’d all be worth it in the end. A spark would call out, make itself known in the worthy form his Chosen would have, and it would catch his attention. Rather than him calling out for their attention and body, asking them, ‘Where are you?’, he encouraged fantasies of how finding the spark would be the other way around. Even if that wasn’t really how it went.

After all, his Risen’s dead. The dead don’t tend to have a very good perception on who’s looking for them.

Maybe he’d find them here. 

A thought that would always prod his mind whenever his surroundings even slightly changed.

Alaska is a good place to revisit and look over regardless, as going over a previous location would let him see if his Chosen had been missed. Seven weeks across the Americas - heading North, then much further, then west - and the chilly countryside lacking its previously expected snowfall slowly became more barren of old ruins more and more. Just as his last visit had shown him, ruins of little settlements, long abandoned, were the “common” find here. They were rare, and spaced out, their integrity long lost to the dark age. The long dead homes and living spaces were barely recognizable through modifications of their structures by unknown previous occupants. Creeping vines of the mindless, clingy forestation added to the weather born damage plaguing every material.

No more ruins of cities, and very few towns bigger than some streets that lead to one another. A town such as the one he’d just come across was more so a village than anything.

Given the state of the area, the rural-even-for-Alaska, small, village-like settlement had left its marks on the surrounding environment that suggested life here, even with the inevitable decay that had clearly started to catch up fast awhile ago to claim its rightful boon. Only the bare bones of its past vibrant economy remained, hinting at what once was. Overgrown and dying crops grew at random and dry patches.

Most definitely, at least regarding the lines of crumpled skeletons and clothes amongst the overgrown brush nearby, barely buried beneath plants that used their ribs and joints for their own uses, the people who had lived there had faced an end to their lives.

Normally, such a settlement would go undiscovered. But the little being of Light making his way through saw it. The little being of Light with no name and a strange pull knew. And he wished them well, wherever they may be in the stars now.

Making notes of his environment, Ghost took some time to become acquainted with the landmarks of the area. Landmarks aside from the many skeletons in mostly torn brown and grey rags.

Patterns seemed to make up the dead zone. In three chunks of land that shared a similar but unevenly close distance from one another and nearly symmetrical in how each grouping of houses were made and organized, twenty-one plain, wooden buildings in groups of seven with their shattered windows sat not all-too many feet apart. Each of the three areas, clearly belonging to the same settlement, was reminiscent of the others that were further into the woods in their pattern and structure. Whoever had resided here, Ghost realized, had done so with each other for a similar, maybe identical purpose.

Just to live, safe and close together. But not too crowded.

Three houses taking up the middle differed only in how their foundations seemed angled, their porches and their railings splintered off and busted by unknown assailants. After the three residing on the same side of the little “clearing” reminiscent of a weed infested road, another structure of darker oak had a large, light colored door, its contents filled with simple machines of rusted metal, gates, and fences. A barn, maybe. The fifth, facing away from all the rest, held rusted metal that resembled pots and pans, and a rope hung limp and broken atop a thin and straight line of rotted old oak wood, contrasting its darker counterpart. The sixth and seventh seemed more of outhouses or compost boxes than anything.

The middle house of the three, with its square window just beneath the roof hinting at a short attic, was the only one with an open door that, tilted on its hinges, opened and slammed with every shift of wind as though a small child were handling it. Even though the strange pull he had started noticing moments earlier became more faint when he approached it, he wanted to at least see for himself the isolated ruins. Sure, he could dematerialize and appear within the other homes that once belonged to a now shattered life, but this one was already open. So, why not?

He got close.

**Creeeeaaaaaak. *BANG* Creeee-ooooak, tech-tech, EEEEEEEEEEE!**

_**Now’s my chance!** _

Weaving through the door just in time and avoiding an unpleasant bust to his shell, the small metal core adorning four striped shell pieces and a glassy optic took the time to go still and take in the room. His optic drifted from one side of the space to the other, utilizing what little time he’d have before the rectangular flood of light beaming in juuuuust right would be cut off. 

Even if it wasn’t the greatest of ideas (nor really efficient. He had his own light.), there was still opportunity to assess what lay inside the dust filled walls. L shaped, the thick width of walking areas and furniture immediately apparent at the door was interrupted by a tall rectangle of open space, a few boxes under the visible bottoms of steps. The steps themselves, in the most simplest terms, were wrecked. Weak splinters at the shattered hollow interiors of each old square that were visibly able to be discerned as soft and old pointed inward at one another in diagonal, inaccurately lined up rows. Never quite alone in their weak almost-spikes.

Dark boots hung limp and stiff midway up the staircase, held in place by a covered leg. An odd mold pooled beneath.

Taking advantage of the details he proudly noted in only a few seconds - he’d been practicing! It’d help his Chosen one day! - the inhuman shape didn’t escape from Ghost’s notice. A piece of purple cloth gripped in the hands of old remains half curled stiffly around the couch he brought himself around sparked curiosity. Old, worn, torn, and tightly restrained in exposed knuckles, it acted as one of the few colors still occupying the skeleton wrapped in faint blue and brown clothes.  
Shredded directly above the heart, the blouse offered no modesty for jagged, broken ribs. A quick fate, hopefully. Humanity had its flaws, but for the most part were undeserving of their plight. Innocent, almost. He wondered if that’s why the Traveler stayed. Could it have seen Humanity to be like its children, in a way?

May this one, like the rest, have a peaceful-

**BANG ******

********

Save for an angled sliver of light from the crooked, tilted door hanging on only to its bottom hinges, fearful, Ghost snapped around at the abrupt fall of dark and flicked on his flashlight as if to catch someone in the act. _**Taken!-**_

********

_**….no, no it’s not. Not Taken.** _

********

He’d gotten so invested in his surroundings that the screeches and whines of the door had gone past his mind. Now, cautious instead of destroyed, Ghost’s slow movement away from the door would be the only thing to proceed those silent seconds of tense air and whistling wind that shook the door on its hinges.

********

Ghost couldn’t even be embarrassed at the realization that he had become startled by the very door that he had been waiting to open not even moments earlier. 

********

He found it…. laughable. Embarrassing, yes, but there wasn’t any embarrassment. So it was just... laughable.

********

_**Tell me my Chosen was watching and maybe THEN I’d feel bad about that. What am I saying? That’s ridiculous, I don’t even have any reason to- am I debating a door?... Right, back to business.** _

********

Briefly bobbing up to the leg crossing the boundary of below and above the stairs, Ghost briefly spared another glance to the mold, now shrouded in dark when his light wasn’t trained directly at its dark appearance.

********

A shock rifle. Short and old, it looked as if its inner mechanisms had overloaded at some point. The jagged metal that looked as if it had at some point melted didn’t look all that inviting at all - and with a sudden start, he realized, it wasn’t mold that corrupted the floor at all. Black patterns of different, almost unintelligible severities mimicked that of Arc damage. It was somewhat like that of the Titan, he remembered, who had slammed his Fists into the sides of an old barn full of Fallen after the old sprinklers had inexplicably powered back on. Back in the Dark Ages, all Risen had to make do with what they were given to work with, and the Titan had utilized the opportunity he’d been given to his utmost ability. Only, this was more controlled, like that of art pieces and designs in wood that Warlocks in the Tower would sometimes create on a big plank of one material or another depending on the week. Always adding to it, like a cooperative mural. While the exaggerated amounts of damage from the already aged wood made it difficult to discern…. that must’ve been the cause.

********

Figuring out little things like this made Ghost feel nice. If his Warlock - only a possibility, of course - wanted someone to go through mysteries over, Ghost would surely be at LEAST interesting input!

********

Its mask layered in rust and jagged features on one side threatening to slice an open palm, the Fallen crumpled on its side, head angled oddly from how it laid against steps, deviated very little from the usual Fallen corpse. Even with curved, dull slits for eyes still partially opened, Ghost pictured the look that must’ve been on its face when it had attacked the settlement and consequently lost its life. Taking another moment to stare down the body illuminated by only his flashlight, what he had guessed was a female through judging specific head wraps and other cloths atop her armor - as well as her counterparts and their servitors - must have been passing through in hopes of finding a place to hunker down.

********

Light bulb. That could be why the place was in such decay. Unrefined, simple materials, exposed to Ether and other chemicals, must have sped up the decay for the once sturdy foundations and bare bones that made up a home. In consequence, the place became uninhabitable, and once the invaders traveled elsewhere, the decay must have sped up. It wasn’t the only possible explanation - not by a long shot for old or pre Golden Age infrastructure - or cause, but it was a theory and it made him feel smart and prepared. Ready to help. Even if it’d been centuries since the Warlords and powerfully corrupt Risen, he was ready to help in just about any form he could when his Chosen was discovered.

********

_**Heh. Ehehehe! Discovered! Like an artifact! One-of-a-kind special, just for me.** _

********

….

********

_**I’m lonely.** _

********

Morose, the thought and its unpleasant feel was very brief. He returned to his search, pleasant and alone. His search. His and his alone. Unshared by all in every moment and purpose except one: to find their own Risen, ones that are surely never going to be nearly as amazing and fantastical as his and could NOT even begin to BREACH on the same level of joy that would be brought upon Ghost when he’d find his. And so his thoughts had been for many a dozen decades.

********

Beneath the Traveler, safe and plentiful, the Last City was the perfect example of impressiveness. Particularly for its walls, and thick, trusty doors, few as they may be. For the most part, Guardians, distinctive from Risen who didn’t protect the city, in his mind, were the only ones to enter and exit the City, and would commonly take to their trusty ships for transportation. Even if it was sometimes just to jump out in a stunt a few miles out! Ghost dreamed of being able to experience it one day. If his Chosen was one of the daring types, the thought of their big, unceasing smile that’d stretched from ear to ear as wind whipped at their body and screamed past their ears in the most marvelous of dives from ship to water filled him with eagerness to see it and beat the record of Elija Monroe, a major player in the swimming team of the 'alternative sports' sometimes sponsored by the Crucible. Always, always he’d imagine that smile, even in simple, passing thoughts. Daydreams such as those procked at any occasion, for the sole reason of his enjoyment and entertainment of them.

********

Like now. He’d gotten so caught up about it that he’d been moving around without really taking much note of anything upstairs.

********

Daydreams still lingering in his mind and lightening his spirit, it was about then Ghost started returning to his previous analysis of his surroundings. A few seconds’ sweep, light lingering almost hopefully over one of the few bodies within the upper floor, and he determined his Chosen was not here.

********

Banging downstairs. Along with the creaks that filled the house, it made him a little jumpy and expectant to find a culprit hidden amongst the shadows when he dematerialized and reappeared downstairs, but the openness of the small but comfortable, simple once-homes allowed for some leniency in ignoring his urges to add to the sunlight that beamed in brief periods and shine his flashlight over every surface. It was an old place, and any intruder, including him, would stand out like rare Awoken crystals amongst cheap jewelry in betting pools Guardians would sometimes indulge in with Civilians, even if only to humor them. Given the lack of hiding places, assurance took his mind off potential dangers like Fallen black market dealers or Hive, even if the thought of them being quiet was almost silly.

********

The door was still acting up in its erratic movements with the encouraging force of light but consistent wind. Ghost went to leave, honest, but… he briefly glimpsed over to the crumpled body he’d first examined coming in, and his flashlight smoothly took up the role of light when the door sputtered mostly shut again. It… was odd. Was he sensing something, or just curious?

********

Optic fixating on the purple cloth, he figured he’d found the source of his curiosity. Now low, so low that his shell almost scratched against the ends of the stained carpet, he angled a piece of his shell beneath the phalanx bones of the skeletal hand so as to make the cloth more evident. He stretched his shell, moving aside the fingers that fell over the middle part of the cloth.

********

Faded and dusty, it took a pulse of a pale line of light to clean it off, revealing a white symbol. House of Dusk, with the adopted symbol of the House of Rain after its demise to the Whirlwind. A circle in the middle, two straight lines on one side of the circle consisting of different sizes, and three on the other. The destruction of the settlement had him pause. No, this wouldn’t be a repeat of the Mercury settlement. The House of Rain was long gone, and so were the invaders, gruesome as they may have been mowing down runners not far off from the end of the street he’d initially arrived through.

********

Sympathy ringing in his core, Ghost gently moved the boney hand back down as an act of respect. He spared the corpse a lingering stare as he made his way outside, a little voice wishing he’d of found his Chosen sooner, travelled here, and protected them in an awesome show of fury and devotion to good.

********

Of course, the flashlight went off as he left the dark space.

********

Ghost peered down the stone well not far down the street, the one hanging from an old rope next to rusted kitchen ware that reminded him of soup kitchens and campfires meant to heat up food before the City’s walls had been built. He wondered if there was any water in there, the inside darkened by the little roof the rope hung from. Even the well was riddled with bullet holes and black spots.

********

Flicking on his flashlight, sparkling water shifted with indefinite ripples whenever the many water bugs would pump their little legs from one place to the next in an otherwise lazy well. Endlessly moving, some of the bugs were stuck. He’d leave them to it.

********

He retracted from the well’s interior. If he’d come here a few years earlier, even without his Chosen to protect them, would there have been people here, alive and busy, tending to the veggies that now grew unchecked, and thus became wild, dry and weird? Perhaps there’d have been…. Children?

********

Or would they have already been dead?

********

Maybe, just maybe he was wrong in the timing of how long it had been since the place became a hollow shell of what it once was. Maybe the state of the dead was older than a few measly years. Maybe the now-skeletons had moved in sometime when the previous inhabitants had moved out or fled, and whoever remained had met with fate’s hand. Maybe that’s why everything seemed so old but the bones remained, still skeletons yet to be consumed by the elements like how their muscle and the rest of their bodies had been devoured by maggots and worms. No matter how corpses were normal both to him and to evolution, decay was a rancid process to witness. The only reason the Fallen body hadn’t decayed so much was probably due to the ether deterring bugs along with the cold.

********

Despite exposure to the high, bright sun’s touch that had followed Ghost throughout his days regardless of where he traveled, little warmth was offered to go with the surrounding chilly air.

********

People that had kept to themselves, separating their lives from the grace of the Traveler aside from the bountiful crops it offered the Earth, often lived here in Alaska, or in other rural areas where similar isolated ruins Ghost had found were. Some of these areas were in Japan, Egypt, Sudan, or China, old and abandoned. Lifeless, usually, with the marks of life either gone or simply undone by Earth’s natural elements and vegetation. Finding places such as those was a rare but always sad little treat that reminded him that not everyone lost their roots of self management with the coming of the Light and its wonders.

********

Exploring the other buildings offered very little difference in results. The house on the left had nothing in it, its contents overturned and wrecked and a hole in the upstairs floor that lined up with the roof, while the house on the right had a pile of bodies. Ghost’s previous assumption that the place hadn’t been too crowded crumpled with the numbers he briefly guessed. He wasn’t about to count individual bodies, the quick once over having been more than satisfactory. No spark, no Chosen, no Risen.

********

Having gone unnoticed by his first glance around behind the barn, torn fabrics below a partially crumbled booth made of stone, just barely holding on to its foundation, seemed to house some religious texts on Islam and Judaism. Really old texts. Strange to see for him, given the - well…. Traveler.

********

Well, the Traveler never exactly demanded worship or anything, it just sorta developed amongst humanity overtime due to its greatness. So, he supposed it made sense that some humans kept to their old texts of Gods and welcomed the one in the sky. 

********

Humans that reject it, and call it evil? THOSE Humans he doesn’t understand at all. What Ghost does understand, though, is that Humans sometimes associate something bad happening to something, and then that affecting them, to be the fault of whatever had initially been attacked or followed. It didn’t really make that much rational sense. The fault is on the attacker, not on what it followed! The Traveler didn’t bring the Darkness, the Darkness followed it, and then the Traveler even sacrificed itself to protect humanity! It doesn’t take a Cryptarch to read the scribes’ written history, so carefully preserved and passed down through the Collapse, through the Dark Age, through modern day!

********

_**Read a book, like the religious ones! It’s THAT simple!** _

********

Bristling as lonesome leaves dragged against his shell, rocking the small twigs they were attached to, Ghost’s shell adjusted itself in an irregular, agitated pattern as he made his way through more foliage.

********

There it was again, that feeling from earlier. Something’s close. Closer than before, becoming more at his attention by the moment. Something important.

********

It wouldn’t leave his mind, wouldn’t let him focus on anything else while also managing itself from becoming like that of an obsession. It reminded him of when he’d wander the roads and up the walls of apartments in the City, daydreaming high up in the air and eliciting fondly kind words from people on their balconies or with open windows as he envisioned what life would be like to finally have his Chosen, and spacing out to watch markets he passed as an enticing smell attracted the attention of children with their mothers or adolescents who’d engage in trading glimmer for treats, crumbs creating a mess on the wraps that often covered their heads for warmth and protection from the elements. Their looks of ‘want’ mixing with ‘need’ and the urge to go, go, go. He felt that right now. Go, go, go.

********

Go to what? It, depending on what ‘it’ is. But what is ‘it’?

********

Crumpled and curled in on itself, Ghost briefly spared another dead Fallen with its brown and purple armor and cloth a look through his newly found concentration. One of its hands lay right below the machete in its chest, jammed through a break of leather that allowed for more mobility to go with the more metallic areas of its armor. Leather on its stomach and arms were slashed, the abdomen itself showing four or five openings about the size of the blade’s width. The only difference in the wounds was that it seemed whoever fought their bravest against the monstrous scavenger had been hurried, affecting how long the straight cuts would stretch. In contrast to the relatively shallow looking injuries, the machete suffering the effects of exposure to the elements and ruined by oxidation was buried up to half of its length in Fallen ribs. The dead flies in all their insect glory piled up beneath or near the openings of armor had their own decisive death. Maybe it’d been the ether that poisoned them. Not like he could see the ether anymore - again, what remained in the surrounding area was all very old.

********

While Ghost had never really taken the time to learn of Fallen anatomy, he’d seen enough quarrels and acts of violence against, and instigated by them, to guarantee that this had been the killing blow. Many times these private interactions as presumed by their captors had been stumbled upon over the years of subtly making his way through wastelands and villages and Fallen infested areas and territories, hoping to navigate through safely or efficiently. The fights were always unique, he recalled, even if they almost blurred together overtime from the repetitive nature of it all. Between humans or Fireteams or Cabal, interactions always had some semblance of repeat. It helped, in a way.  
He’ll ignore it for now. Ghost had to get back to what he was doing. Follow the trail, there’s something there. 

********

Follow the trail, there’s something there. Go, go, go.

********

Through tilted branches, brush, and trees, a bright sparkling of water caught Ghost’s attention. Sharply singing their tweets, a few birds changed their placement at his passing, cocking their heads at him like in the manner of a child goofing off. Birds did it faster, and the movement was almost like they’d snapped their necks. They didn’t, of course.

********

He wasn’t even that close to it, but the bird flew away quickly and rushed for no apparent reason. Moments filled with the sound of erratic wings disappeared and cut off seemingly just as suddenly as they had begun their jittered escape. 

********

Clearing the end of the thicker brush, small, individual blades of grass, spread out in occasional groups of patches atop blackened dirt animated from limp to wavy as they shifted with the gentle wind passing through. Where the clumps of sandy colors shifted the appearance of an already lighter shade of dirt, pond water met its cool uncaring edge, its blue body and darkened bottom carrying algae and leaves with its tentative movement. After years of placement, rain had run both mud and sand down into what it had become today at the ends of the water. For those who had seen the rotting wooden walls of the desolate would-be homes nearby, maybe then they’d have guessed that the pond had once been a source of life for a presumably once pleasant place.

********

After he’d taken in the scene, something caught his optic. There was a ceasing of movement from the striped Ghost. Something so absolute hit him that he couldn’t even think.

********

What could’ve caused it?

********

Could the source of his sudden freeze be the dark bird standing in the pond, water up to its knees, the bird stopping to look around before it tilted its beak forward into the water and repeated itself every brief second or so? The buzzing ball of gnats above the water, feeding the croaks of noisy frogs in their insect genocide? Or, perhaps, the skeletal forearm - starting at the shoulder and bent at the elbow, the humerus tilted forward like a bent sapling stiffly embedded into the ground. A long forgotten tragedy, as if the woman had tried to escape the Earth itself.

********

Something was odd. This one felt different. Like someone Ghost knew. Someone close to him. True. Someone to comfort and confide in, to be comforted and confided by. To bury the memories of the Dark Age and live in the greatness Ghosts proudly boasted of when describing their Chosen’s achievements, trying to conclude who truly had the most influential and greater Guardian. It felt like Light.

********

His Chosen’s spark.

********

It felt like something he’d imagined for centuries. Familiar, in a vague sense, but entirely new.

********

Ghost came closer at once, half heartedly shooing away a few oblivious tiny bugs as they crawled up the tilted bones.

********

Although it had been hidden in the ground with more subtlety than the arm, Ghost felt the awed pride in the Risen he’d soon meet already, and found himself entranced by the face - well, by the thought of the face. Dozens of ideas passed through his mind as he stared into empty sockets above a hole for a nose, sunlight just barely revealing the dirt filling the inner skull roughly halfway. The jaw was still attached, albeit open and stiff, positioned in a way that reminded him of how stiff, clasped handles tended to move and stretch. So many possible skins, so many people’s faces. Mostly human faces. He had to forget them, this was a new face. One more unique and original than anyone else could be!

********

Even if it wasn’t true, it was to him. And that was a fact.

********

This was her. Ghost didn’t know how he already knew the sex, or how he already knew for certain this one was his, but it was irresistible to think otherwise!

********

_**The spark!** _

********

Thoughts of clothes, armor. He started circling around the remains, mind completely cleared that this was a corpse. The shift from ‘this is a body’ to ‘I will give my Chosen the best’ was absolute.

********

A straight beam of white occasionally left his optic, like he was prodding, trying to get more of a feel of what he’d make in both clothes and limbs. Ghost felt with his Chosen’s Light a strength, capability, worthiness. It was like Ghost was ready to tap into Light like that of the Traveler’s, amplified by his own growing excitement and determination. Determination that had been grown, honed, prepped forever it seemed.

********

Ghost’s shell pulsed up and down his core, like magnets meeting and resisting against one another but never launching away. Not even the bristling from moments before came to mind. Bright blue started to gather around him, reaching out, spreading out, feeling for its joining with the future that awaited him.

********

Clumps of dirt and earth surrounding the bones parted ways, carrying grass and roots and dropping bugs drilling into and around his Chosen across wherever they’d been moved. Snapped ribs quickly became visible over a spine. Then jutted hips, the bones stained from the years of filthiness and exposure. The feet only just barely had been uncovered when the skeleton itself seemed to writhe with power. Still and quiet, but alive and thriving. Bones shook, the Light moving in its own way.

********

_**You’re going to be the best thing in the world,**_ Ghost decided. _**In the Galaxy! I know it. Better than Saint-14, better than the Iron Lords, better than the God Slayer. I say it, and it’s true. It’s true and I’m so excited! I’m so excited!**_

********

_**I’m so excited!** _

********

Whether or not this was true, it certainly felt so to him.

********

Muscles, veins, brain matter, skin, blood. The skeleton was lacking it all. No - his Chosen’s skeleton was lacking it all.

********

He’ll give her some.

********

With a sudden burst of energy and Light, he focused whatever he could into the pale light and once again pressed at the skeleton, now familiar with its quirks. His shell seemed to vibrate in a way reminiscent of magnets pushing against one another, being pushed together by that of an eager child.

********

Organs, veins, blood, muscle, skin. In whatever order it had come, Ghost couldn’t be sure. Only the pieces, chunks, and whole parts had his attention. Meeting his Chosen had his attention. Giving life to his Chosen made his purpose more clear and apparent than it had ever been before.

********

Clothes formed, layering and stretching, offering protection for the body and from elements. Clothes that Ghost himself had made over and over and over and now finally had the perfect ones made through Light and will. For his partner.

********

For his Guardian.

********

\---------------------------------------------------------------------

********

While not registered, the subconscious effort to take in the environment through sound and make guesswork of what unseen things were there, as well as where, began to raise its head.

********

It took some time, but after Zadie became self aware of her lack of thoughts - an apparent eternity that had really only been a few mere seconds - she slowly came to the understanding half her face was flush pressed against something rough. Dry, coarse dirt. It was scratchy, and cold.

********

Zadie opened her eyes without thinking only to immediately squeeze both shut as specks of dirt made their way into her right eye. Hand smacking to her face to rub with her palm, she rubbed at her eye, blinking somewhat dryly as the tiny specks rubbed against her lid.

********

Widening her lids super big with her fingers invited a cold dryness and had her tear ducts kick into action, filling her eyes in an attempt to clean them out. Squeezing both shut again, Zadie kept them like that until the feeling under her lid subsided.

********

This time without incident, brushing off her cheek of whatever may have clung to it, Zadie was able to open her eyes. What met her this time was not a face full of dirt. Standing inside a clunky hole from toes to eye level, trees shifted with a steady but light wind, orange and yellow leaves standing amongst others with green and lime colored trees.

********

“Shhh, shhh, shh,” came a voice. “It’s alright. You’re okay, I promise.”

********

Zadie came to realize the stiffness of her movements, and the difficulty in how she was breathing becoming lighter and more natural by the second. A strange anxiety lightened with the pressure in her ribs, with the constricting nature of her lungs. She was breathing quick, and shallow, and yet that hadn’t been what she’d first noticed when she’d…. She’d…. Woken up? She doesn’t remember going to sleep. She knows who she is, what she is, and what’s around her in the sense that everything was familiar in more than one way. But that’s it.

********

That’s it.

********

At the sight of the strange metal orb with a glowing ‘eye’, Zadie’s gaze locked onto it, following the movements of its shell as they made their uneven and smooth rotations around the thin metal core, the shell just barely scraping the dirt beneath the hovering eye she just now realized was the voice she’d heard. As her dark eyes with hints of golden tones like that of her dark skin met with his optic, a sudden euphoric glee filled Ghost. If he had a heart, Ghost felt as though he’d understand when humans say their hearts flutter at the sight of a loved one, as he knew he truly loved his Chosen since the moment he met her. He thought he had already, but he was wrong. Nothing can compare to this great and amazing moment, not even the most vivid of daydreams. While he’d tried to offer his fast-breathing Chosen some comfort, it just seemed that she was getting her bearings for the most part.

********

He hoped he could make the experience easier on her. After all, new Risen are sorta like babies. Okay, maybe not like babies, but they always have to experience everything in their forever-living lives again and learn from their experiences. The least Ghost could do was greet her, and get to know her, and watch her hunt, and watch her shoot, and - and experience and guide her through everything, he hoped!

********

Cautious, his Chosen spoke slowly, almost sluggish, yet to learn of him and his purpose as her partner who’d searched throughout the stars and planets for her. “Who are you?”

********

His eager reply came without even the skip of a beat. “I’m Ghost!”

********

Having been immediate and sure, Ghost felt happy. Happy to meet her, happy to speak to her, happy she wants to know who he was - is! Happy that they mutually want to know about one another, at least in some way.

********

But… why did she still look… lost, almost? Unsure? Not energetic, not excited, not fond of him like he’d imagined? crept into his core. He hadn’t considered that his glee and desire to meet his Chosen wouldn't have been possible to even exist from her. She had no daydreams of glory, no idea of the chaos that unfolded more into unrest throughout the centuries, no expectations of the world around or before her. She didn't have any eagerness to meet him, the ultimate companion to end the constant loneliness he’d been searching so long to find a true, final end to. This was her first day alive.

********

Her first _minute._

********

The realization he’d have to figure out what to say, gently, as the stiffness of her bones and muscles were flexed out by their first movements in possibly centuries, was daunting. It made him quiet, his joy and excitement mixed painfully with his embarrassment, and despite how he knew she wouldn’t, he hoped that, for all it was worth, his Chosen didn’t notice the clash of emotion. Thankfully, she seemed to look elsewhere as she rolled her arm, hand on her shoulder, straightening her posture, just getting general stiffness out of the way. Maybe she was just uncomfortable with him staring at her so quietly. What seemed as awkward silence to him must have been simply time for her to get more comfortable in a body she’d long since lost.

********

Clicks and a slight whirr left him as he contemplated what to say, drawing a flicker of eyes to and away from him. Ghost didn’t like seeing her uncomfortable - truthfully, he found the thought of making his Chosen uncomfortable this early on to be quite daunting.

********

Less than one minute ago, he’d been certain they’d be the best of friends. Now, filled with embarrassment and shame, his view on the future seemed dreary. Even with logical thinking warding him away from his worries, he felt a slight cold. What if she’d hate him?

********

The moment became raw and real.

********

Focusing on his joy had no point. It’s good to be happy, but several important points, not even considered over the years of what he’d think and becoming obvious for the first time, filled him with fresh clarity.

********

They were alone, just outside an isolated village filled with piles and lines of old corpses. They were in Alaska, where it was cold, and had no way to get her somewhere safe. Even if she was Risen, she was still new to the Light, and her regained life, only a corpse waiting to become Chosen three silent, awkward minutes ago. He had no weapons to give her. Her clothes, even if it hurt to admit it, weren’t the best for the cold weather of a country that had barely a few hours of sunlight every day, if even that. There was no ship.  
His Chosen would be hungry soon. Risen can starve. Pangs of hurt at the thought of her inevitable suffering only added to the daunting situation and environment his Chosen would have to adjust to.

********

Hunter. Hope flickered through his core. His Chosen was a Hunter, he’d just realized!

********

Sudden excitement wasn’t enough to ward away the clarity settling still over his mind. Watching her adjust how she stood and shift her limbs - bored, no longer stretching now - he suddenly knew what to say.

********

Sure and smooth, Ghost moved to the side, catching her attention. It stayed on him, this time. He tried again, this time sure of how to make her understand his intentions, and what she needed to do. “I know you must be…. Confused, now. I am, too. But we need to get you shelter before daylight falls. My name is… Ghost.”

It felt alien, saying that was his name. It was different from going ‘I am’, because that was simply referring to who he was. But his Chosen’s stare, her beautiful stare. It held more understanding for what he was - the association of an ally. It was a comforting thought, he could tell, even with the sparks of suspicion and wariness that he knew so well accompanied by Hunters and older Guardians alike. He wanted to get to know her, just like he had for centuries before. But now? In a different, newly perceived way.  
“Do you have a-.... Do you know your name?” Ghost asked.

********

His Chosen was quiet, too quiet to assure him, but he still knew she’d answer. There was something about her he just knew. Her dark, curly hair, fuzzy, short and filling the entirety of her scalp, perfectly complemented her features. “Zadie,” his Chosen said. As if to make it more official, just as he’d wanted since forever, “My name is Zadie.”

********

_**Beautiful,**_ Ghost thought. _**I hope she gives me a name as beautiful as that.**_

********

His previous positively started to return, along with his vision of the future.

********

She was okay with him.

********

Zadie was okay with him. And that was a good start.

********

Fingers digging into loose sod, bits of dirt fell and shifted with the drag of Zadie’s boots as she hoisted herself out of the little prison she’d once been buried dead. Her cloak, lengthy to about the upper calf, didn’t match the same shades of brown she wore, but still went with the same color scheme of her grey-brown pants and gingerbread brown shirt. Oddly enough, Ghost realized, the clothes resembled those of the shredded rags of the village skeletons. Maybe he’d wanted to give her a sense of home when he was making them for her.

********

Well, he’d seen such simple clothes on other Guardians in the tower, he supposed. New ones, always greasy and dirty from their many days travelling to the city, already fit and lean with somewhat shaped arms and muscles from the wilderness and its demanding requirements for survival. The clothes were always different, but simple and efficient.  
The only thing that irked him at the comparison was how most of them held some sort of weapon. Unlike his.

********

Not even a knife…

********

Wait.

********

Suddenly invigorated, more sure and confident than the energetic excitement of before, he bobbed up, quick and swift. “Wait here!”  
Even when her face took on a look of confusion and a wanting to understand how or why he suddenly had to disappear, Ghost staved off his feelings of guilt as he rematerialized at the Fallen with the machete embedded in its body. Normally, Ghosts couldn’t repair weapons on their own, but he’d just found his Chosen and his Light was still more unstable and powerful than normal, allowing for some leniency for him as a piece of the Traveler that had once been shed from its body.

********

_**I’ll be taking that.** _

********

Sparkling blue and white light enveloped the blade, and in a vague sense, he could feel along its shape and body as it pulled itself out and floated in place, rotating calmly. Light slowly expanded to the hilt, the blade shaking, vibrating with power and purity. Changing, sharpening, becoming more reliable and handy. Only the best for his Chosen. The best that he can give. Even if it hadn’t processed how he’d give his Chosen weapons until he found her, it seemed fate was much more merciful to him than he’d thought.  
For a while, he was there, focusing and honing its light as much as it’d allow. Like rezzing his Chosen, he didn’t know how long he’d been perfecting his craft. Nonstop, the blade shook and bucked, extending slowly above the body, and as the light shifting over and around the machete faded, he could see it.

********

Now a material like that of steel, the chips of rust starting to levitate like leaves reversing their falls and disappearing, the blade had an almost unimaginable sharpness to it. If he pressed his shell to it, he was nervous he’d slice it. Just imagining the blade in the hands of his Chosen, used to gore a deer, or protect herself, had him glancing at the handle. Sure enough, the grip would go well with her hand. Firm, trusty, and fitting. In short, a tulwar with a custom grip. Finally, finally something else was going right, and he’d be able to stay by his Chosen’s side until he’d come to realize something else that’d come to be an issue.

********

Wanting to return to her as soon as possible, Ghost didn’t bother to hover over. Just as he’d left, he disappeared and rematerialized back to her, proud and more than eager to gift her a reliable blade, and was more than surprised to see his Chosen crouched by a pile of sticks, bent over and biting off the ends of a hemp plant, tied at the ends of a bent and curved stick meant to act as a bow. Had he really been gone that long? He supposed he shouldn’t have been taken so off guard at the sight. Guardians sometimes retained memories or skills from their past lives. Usually not at the same skill level as before, but if they didn’t there was usually a knack or intuition driving them to learn it.

Like riding a bike, as he’s heard humans and Guardians alike say. He wouldn’t know. He doesn’t have legs. Or anything aside from his Light, his mind, and his shell, anyway.

At his arrival, Zadie didn’t seem too happy. Not angry, or upset, or scared, just not happy. Maybe he was imagining things, but he could’ve sworn he saw a downward pull of her lips when he approached.

********

Ghost hated the thought of being something that made her unhappy. Hopefully, it was just the confusion of a newly rezzed Risen affecting her views on him. After all, a Risen hating their Ghost wouldn’t do. He’s heard of that happening, and he wouldn’t be able to bear it if his Chosen ended up hating him after so many years of loving and adoring even the thought of meeting her.

********

Ghost transmat the machete and its new elegance beside her, the thought of the noise it’d make didn’t even cross his mind. “Zadie, I made you a-”

Startled and alarmed, his Chosen scurried back from the suddenly appeared object, a sharp stone suddenly raised in her palm as wild brown eyes trained on the machete. Her rapid chest suddenly hitched in realization that nothing threatening was beside her. Faintly, red darkened her brown-gold cheeks, eyes flicking to Ghost. He almost felt hurt that he’d made her so alarmed, until… his Chosen smiled, showing off nice teeth and returning to her previous spot, now sitting instead of crouched. Amused, as if he thought he’d done this on purpose. “How’d you do that?”

********

Oh! This was good, very good. Zadie palmed the hilt, running her fingers over the flat of the blade. His shell spinning, “My Light allows me and other Ghosts to do many things otherwise impossible. The same goes for you, and other Risen like you.”

********

Zadie looked up at that, her brows quirking, grin still on her face. “Risen?”

********

Right, right. She didn’t know. Ghost bobbed as if to nod. “Risen, yes. You’ve…. Been dead. For a while,” he told her. When she seemed about to protest, he quickly aimed his gaze at the hole she’d taken her first breath in. “You woke in dirt with no memory of your past life. You have no memories, yet you know how to understand things around you. You were dead, Chosen. Dead as bones, literally. And I found you. I found you, after so long, I really did, and you’re here now, with skin and muscle and blood and a body and - and a great, beautiful smile. We were destined and I finally found you. I don’t think you can understand how much I am loyal to you, I wouldn’t lie to you about this. Please believe me. Please. After all these years, please don’t call me a liar. I wouldn’t lie to you. Please don’t think I would, not on purpose! You’re the best thing in the world, please don’t say I’m a liar! I’m not, I’m really not! Not to you, not to anyone! Risen are corpses rezzed, and you happened to be my Chosen who I resurrected. I told you how you and I can do things otherwise impossible, you saw it, please. Please believe me. I love you, please believe me!”

********

He didn’t know what caused it, but instead of a simple explanation, he poured out his feelings through his pleads as honest and raw as he could. Maybe it’d been the stress and embarrassment from earlier, maybe the centuries had been building up to it. But even when the uncomfortable look in her eyes returned with a slight fall of her smile, he knew she understood he was genuine, and he was affected in some way. She was curious, but off put. And that was okay. It was better than her not liking him.

Anything would be better than her not liking him. Even… even being sold on the black market by a Fallen mercenary to an Awoken Tech Witch, like an item. Stars, that was a much more desirable fate. He wanted her to like him - or at least, not dislike him.

********

In those uncomfortable few seconds, Ghost searched, desperate, wanting to change the subject and have her act like he didn’t just blab off. He hoped he hadn’t annoyed her with how he was. First he disappeared for at least an hour, and now this? No wonder his Chosen had been so well hidden, he must be a pain!... “Your cloak!”  
Where’d it go?

********

Zadie dragged her dirty palms slowly on her shirt and gave him a quizzical look, adding to the marks of dirt on the sides. He tilted his core like a head in a sort of gesture, but stopped once he remembered it wasn’t exactly the same as having a body like hers with cues and facial expressions. So, to make up for it, he brought himself behind her and tapped his shell between her shoulder blades. “The hood I gave you… where’d you put it? Did I make you a bad one?”

********

“What? No,” Zadie turned her upper body to face him more, his fretting, worried voice spawning sympathy as her hands worked at rubbing two sticks together. Bark chipped off in steady, disproportionate sizes, gathering on her pants and the wet grass beneath her. “I just needed something to dry the wood and protect the fish. I need to cook the fish.”

********

Fish? When did she have time to - oh… right.

********

At least the machete was of trusty quality. He didn’t like how he was so anxious. A good anxious, kinda, but anxious nonetheless. Like the time he’d met the newly Risen of another Ghost he’d grown into friends with, who left with her Risen three decades ago. The two had been searching for their respective Chosen together for five years. The other Ghost had taken the name Gertrude, and they made their goodbyes, him happy for her to a point he couldn’t even be sad about her going and eager to find his own Chosen, and nervous he’d miss where his Chosen would be. Most of the time he doesn’t even think about her, but whenever he does, he wonders where Gertrude and her Chosen ‘can’t-remember-my-name’ are now.

********

Over beside many clumped up sticks, the long part that draped below the hood was partially filled with sticks that bumped the surface and stuck out at their ends, the top of the bundle also piled with some. Not many, as that would create problems with the moisture not leaving. The hood, laid more flat out and straight, was pulled over on itself, and a stone similar to the one his Chosen had almost bashed him with pinned it shut, effectively protecting the fish from the gnats in the air and from exposure.

********

But… where did?- “There’s fish in the pond?”

********

“No,” Zadie lifted her hand as far up as it could go, tilted her wrist and pointed, “there’s a river that way. It’s spawning season.”

********

Wow! Complements and praise once again filled his consciousness. His Chosen was so good at these things. Was it just natural skill carried over from her past life, or was it because she was a Hunter? Either way, his worries from earlier about her starving eased up, erasing parts of his anxiety messing everything up that he didn’t even notice was there.

********

Maybe it wasn’t messing everything up, and he was just anxious about that, too, and it just seemed that way. She was treating him more naturally, after all. He loved it.

His Chosen - he’d have to get used to just referring to her as Zadie, if he could - managed to get the fire started in about half an hour, sparking quiet praise from him. They didn’t talk too much, but when they did, the conversations beside the small fire felt long and full, and they took his mind off everything else. His Chosen didn’t seem to mind getting her hands dirty, given how she used the sharp stones to slice them open and removed the scales and other unwanted bits with ease. It didn’t take long for him to realize Zadie trusted the machete with more than just offense or defense, as seen when instead of just using a stick to pike the two fish, she instead favored the blade he’d spent quite some time on. Ghost didn’t mind it, of course, he just didn’t expect it to help his Chosen like… that.

********

Well, it helped. That meant both he and it were doing their jobs.

********

After a while, when his Chosen took to sharpening the two already sharp stones together over the fire, creating nice little sparks along with loud clunks every now and then. He’d forgotten the purpose of the heat, but he’d remembered it was cold when he drifted away to peer into the pond water, still unable to see past algae and the darkness within. No matter how much he wondered how deep it was, he wasn’t about to try and find out.

********

Sometimes, Zadie would ask him questions. What is the Traveler? What are the other Chosen like, and what makes one Chosen? Why did he think it was going to get dark during spawning season? While the first two he’d explained to the best of his ability, eager to satisfy any and all of her curiosities, make her like him, and educate his Chosen as much as he could, the last one stumped him.

********

“It gets dark every season,” he’d tried to explain. But she’d lightly wagged her finger in a manner that clearly wasn’t serious, but still made it clear that she was correcting him. Spawning season matched up with the twenty two hours of day. The other two hours, she had said, “... are filled with dusk or dawn. Usually, I call it dusk.”

While Zadie’s retained memory was impressive, it wasn’t huge. When Ghost had asked her if she knew of the settlement not even five minutes walk away, she’d said no, but she’d like to learn about it. He ended up telling her he didn’t know much and how it held nothing of value, hoping to deter her from finding all the bodies that he himself was used to, and while she herself clearly wasn’t disappointed with what he told her, Ghost was still disappointed in himself. Like his thoughts from earlier, he wondered if he’d have been here a few years earlier, would the people have still been alive? And if they had been, maybe he’d have met his Chosen, returned at a later date, and told her all about its history and habits. Fortunately though, that didn’t happen. Fortunate, because Risen were usually better off not learning about their past lives. The Traveler’s Light removed certain memories from its Risen for a reason. Usually the majority of memories, sure, but it had to be for a good cause for it to do that. There really wasn’t any way for him to explain the amnesia Risen experience otherwise.

********

The Darkness was manipulative. It didn’t need force to make Risen do its bidding. He’d seen Warlords in the Dark Ages, taking power for themselves and distributing chaos and furthering unrest with strange contempt. Whether or not the Darkness had them, it was hard to tell, and that’s what made it suspicious. Suspicious and likely.

He didn’t like thoughts of the Darkness poisoning the newfound time with his Chosen, so he trained his optic onto the fire and followed his Chosen wherever she decided to wander as it started to die down. Zadie could climb trees nicely. Not in the sense that she couldn’t do it without falling - she could, she really, really could - but she didn’t look clunky or slowed down. It took a few tries to get to that point, but just as with the bow that he’d learned had taken multiple failed attempts that ended up joining the fire, she became smooth and increasingly capable, like she was reviving old memories.

********

Like riding a bike, he remembered again. Like riding a bike.

********

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

********

Prologue - Zadie

********

_**Day Three** _

********

“Are you… sure, Zadie?”

********

Once he had her attention, Ghost, before she could try to nibble the pinched red circles, quickly added, “It’s just that- well, those look poison, that’s all. I remember reading on berries and I don’t think you’ll want to eat those ones.”

********

He could be wrong, though. We both might be. I think I’ll try them.

********

“These should be fine,” Zadie shrugged. She settled the bunched up, tiny group of red between her teeth and bit it in half, swishing the bitter-sweetness around to get a good memory for the taste in the event she needed to remember they had to be avoided but had a similar looking cousin berry.

********

Trying berries one isn’t familiar with is, advisably, not good health practice, but she had this intuitive acquaintance with a lot of berries, so maybe the ones that she wasn’t quite familiar with would be fine too. Ghost had seemed appalled at her for eating some wild celery stems of the angelica plant on their third day together, and whatever kind of beam of light he’d seemed to poke her with only let up when he realized and became amazed at the fact that she wasn’t poisoned. That amazement turned to noticeable embarrassment when she’d told him the similarities of the good celery and the poison, but they were quite different plants, and the poison kind, while not necessarily as toxic as another type of celery-like plant, would have spawned burns on her fingers after a few days if she’d touched it. He’s gotten embarrassed or flustered a multitude of times already, both from himself and from something he’d forget or be corrected on. His knowledge on other species he’d warned her about was valuable, but here in Alaska, she was the one with the smarts. She liked the little floating ball, and he was clearly very, very fond of her and anything she thought, said or did. For instance, Zadie could speak English, so it hadn’t been that difficult to understand Ghost when he first woke her up, but she preferred Ashurit. When she’d told Ghost this the other day, although he admitted he did not have any idea of which language she was referring to, he’d called her ‘the smartest Chosen I could ever ask for’. Sure, she didn’t know the names of the plants or berries she usually went for, regardless of how familiar or unfamiliar she was with them, but the celery had been fine. Who’s to say that if she successfully distinguished a bad plant and a good plant without even knowing the names that she couldn’t try ones she didn’t have the sense of familiarity for?

********

At the least, she’ll get it out of her way and develop a sense of rejecting familiarity for these ones. At the most, something to add to the fish of which she finds much easier than anything else in the future. After all, it wasn’t too hard to find what tended to jump out into the open. It was the catching or grabbing part that was the problem.

********

Ghost eyed her nervously. “Uh… huh… Just, let me know if you feel sick at least,” came his pleading, questioning squeak. He looked her over as she said how she might as well.

********

“Why are you so iffy on me eating these?” Zadie asked. At his ‘Huh?’, she gestured lightly to herself. “You told me that as long as you were by my side, for as long as you and I lived, that you would keep me alive. You’ve demonstrated enough for me to believe you. If I can’t die then I’ll be okay, just a little sick.”

********

He readjusted his shell. Zadie was already starting to notice how she associated it with someone licking their lips. “Well… I just don’t like the thought of you hurt. Or dying.”

********

“I thought you’d keep me alive,” Zadie frowned. She suddenly remembered what exactly he’d told her, and she raised a hand before he could reply. “I was wrong. You said that I can die. Just not forever.”

********

“Right,” Ghost said. His voice lightened, a similar excitement lightly carrying in the tone as if he’d noticed she’d been listening, and had realized she wasn’t calling him a liar. Whenever he thought she was doing that, and she made it clear she wasn’t, he always seemed pretty relieved. “Right! No matter what, you’ll be okay. Even if you’re shredded down to your last atom!” Ghost paused and adjusted his shell in a way that looked like he felt suddenly more uncomfortable, as if bugged. “It’ll be more difficult if you do, though. Please, don’t.” He raised his voice and heavied the emphasis as she started walking again before abruptly appearing at her side. “Please.”

********

Rubbing her forearm at the light itch that started tingling atop its surface, Zadi, at the thought of not existing for any amount of time, even if it was just a few minutes, bluntly replied, “I don’t plan to.”

********

Even though she’d come to accept her waking as a resurrection, she didn’t quite think it to be as it was. It wasn’t denial, just an association of sorts.

********

Chewing celery for an hour hadn’t really been necessary aside from filler for her stomach and something sweet to sniff between stops, but it was a nice enough find and entertainment to spit big, spit infused chunks of moist glob at the wolves that liked to harass her sometimes, and that was enough for her to yank a stem of the celery plant as she passed. It wasn’t as fun to watch the wolf that got spat on stop to lick it off, but she can’t have everything. There was only so much she could carry at a time, and the furs she had wrapped around herself, tied through slits made with her machete and with strong grass like that of her bow’s keeping it together, allowed for some room to store things, but she didn’t like to. Besides, Zadie wasn’t exactly a fan of any crunching or smushing pressing against her stomach or back and dampening the clothes she wanted to keep as dry as possible so they wouldn’t be like the ankles of her pants or insides of her boots when she’d step into the river. Even if the feeling would be miniscule and small in comparison to the freezing nature of the streams and ponds and rivers and dirt and everything else, it would still be enough of a reminder of squeaking boots and toes rubbing against each other for warmth to be unwelcomed. Her arrows were different in how they could be wrapped up in the surplus fur she had left over after covering her torso, and long grass kept them from falling out while also supplying her with a means of keeping the pouch of sorts on her back, tying the little makeshift quiver to her body with the tied strips that wrapped under her chest, creating a sense of fitting.

********

The celery wouldn’t taste good crumpled and destroyed, either, or at least she wouldn’t have as much to work with after they’d inevitably end up crushed, so she kept the dewy, cold stems in her hand.

********

A hand that she noticed was a bit numb. Zadie was no fool, and acknowledged that she should’ve listened to Ghost. The berries must be the culprit for why her heart was starting to feel heavy, and her face warmer than what simply being cold made it like. “Ghost.”

********

He quickly snapped his eye on her. “Yes, Chosen?”

********

If she only mentioned part of her affliction, would he find the entirety? “My arm is tingling and numb. The berries were poison.”

********

Just like that, Ghost was prodding at her with the string of pale light, and all of the oddities that didn’t belong vanished. As a bonus, she felt rejuvenated - even if from what she’d noticed, there’d only been a few things that felt off. Zadie took a nice, clear breath, the crispness spreading to her lungs. “... Wow.”

********

He seemed to like her sudden awe. “I told you those were poison,” Ghost gently tsk’d. It was obvious that he wasn’t being serious, just a nervously playful jab at an ‘I told you so’ that he didn’t want to come across as rude or like he was putting her down.

********

Zadie wondered if he’d always been like that, or if he was just like this around those he loves. “That you did. Thank you.”

********

Her steady, small smile and complementative gaze leveled with his, and he paused. His shell pressed close to his circular body, and he seemed a bit surprised at the complete sincerity no matter how many times it was shown as his eye flicked from one place to the next, remaining on her regardless. Instead of nervously adjusting it, the stillness of his shell seemed to convey something she’d yet to catch onto, and he made a nod of sorts to her.

********

A ‘You’re welcome’, it seemed. He quickly looked away, but briefly glanced back as if trying to convey it wasn’t out of disgust or annoyance.  
Ghost really was a nervous little thing, wasn’t he?

********

**YIP YIP**

********

Zadie promptly bit down on the celery stems to free her hands and pressed her chest to a tree. Getting a hold onto it, she pushed herself up with her boots until she found a nice branch that supported her weight. It shifted down as she plopped down, the leaves bouncing with the branch and some falling, but it all settled eventually. It didn’t matter if the wolves were simply near or right on her. She didn’t want to get close.

********

“We’re doing this again?” Ghost groaned. Zadie didn’t have to answer for him to know that yes, they would be. It wasn’t like they were going anywhere, anyway. “You’re an excellent shot. You can take them!”

********

Wolves weren’t really that much of an issue for Zadie, despite their constant presence in her first few days. While not always following throughout her nearly nonstop wandering, it hadn’t been unexpected to encounter them after she’d cooked some fish the first time. The five have since made it a habit to follow her around often after she’d taken the life of one of their own, prompting her steadily growing and consistent habit of loitering up in trees when the wariness of getting pounced on or surrounded got too much. Some hours ago, she’d left a little bit of fish in the hood and dangled it upside down as she napped in the trees, encouraging the wolves as tall as men to investigate while she’d been safe and sound. While not always trailing or nearby, their return and leaving was like clockwork. At times like these, Ghost would remind her sometimes of her bow whenever she’d retreat into the trees, or press again at her using the machete she’d quickly grown fond of over the last few days. Having already skinned one for its pelt and more warmth, she didn’t think it really necessary to waste the rest of their lives when she wouldn’t even make a tent for herself just yet. It’d be a pain to haul all of that around. Sometimes, the wolves were covered in the blood of other animals, which made her even more discouraged to eat or kill them. She didn’t want to risk missing some of their filthy blood and getting it on her future hunts after cleaning the stone ends off a valuable arrow. Zadie already had what she needed to help with the cold bite of Alaskan air, crude as it was.

********

Ghost didn’t seem to understand that she found it satisfying and encouraging whenever she’d climb up places such as this. Keeping the wolves interested wasn’t that hard. Convincing Ghost that she wasn’t planning on killing them anytime soon? Zadie might as well keep repeating herself until the day she dies. It gave her an excuse to be high up, dangling in a branch with her legs kicking back and forth either together or separate depending on the moment. It was also done out of spite. If they want her so bad, they can learn to climb.

********

They were up there for a while, with the white wolves occasionally trotting beneath her or wagging their tails and wrestling rough with one another. Ghost had told her snow wasn’t expected for another few days. She’d already known, given the bite in the air burning her uncovered arms with its chilly presence, but it was nice watching him feel good about himself. It hadn’t taken long to catch onto how he seemed to like supplying her with useful information that he thought she didn’t know or expect. She’d noticed it before, it just became more obvious right now. He was a little ball of awkward sweetness, and she wouldn’t tell him that to avoid embarrassing him.

********

Four legs, all on the ground. Four legs on the same part of the body. Four armed creatures came to mind, familiar in a sense of fondness and haunting that only vaguely reminded her of the familiarity belonging to berries and everything else she seemed to somehow know. Fallen, Ghost had described over the fire of the first day, were four armed people of alien origin belonging to a ruined society, belonging to Houses like that of clans. Some fought, some were allies. Most pillaged and scavenged off of those around them in attempts to survive and further their standing in the solar system.

********

Leaning a bit to the side and cocking her head back as much as it’d allow without throwing her off balance, she became entranced by the movement of legs. Four legs. Four. The sense of betrayal grew, conflicting strange and deep with the fondness of an unseen face. Zadie started to feel cold. A different cold, like a chilling realization of which she didn’t know its belonging.

********

Zadie promptly mushed her back against the tree, eyes shut and heart thumping in her ears at a steady decline in weight and strength. A calm, smooth breath eases through her throat and lungs, forcing a scattering mind back into relative focus. Fallen… “Is there another name for them?”

********

Silence, and Zadie opened her eyes to peer half lidded at where she’d expected him to be. When he wasn’t there, she became more alert, head quickly swiveling around until she found him peeking around the same side as she had been earlier. “Ghost?”

********

His shell readjusted in that nervous way of his, and he spared her one of his usual quick glances to let her he’d only been thinking, not ignoring her. “I don’t know. Coyotes aren’t the same, and they’re not dogs, so-“

********

“I mean the Fallen,” Zadie corrected. His shell stopped in movements, but his active stare let her know he was just taking in what she was saying. More sure she had him thinking of the right thing this time, she slowly asked, “Do the Fallen have another name?”

********

Surprise was an understatement given his baffled voice. “Yes. Yes, they do,” he murmured. His shell started moving all nervous like again, and he bobbed upward, closer to her face. “How did you know that?”

********

She didn’t know. Her face fell with her head, chin resting against her chest as her shoulders slouched, slow and without purpose. “I don’t know. I just… What are they called?”

********

He considered her for a moment. The concern was evident, and she almost missed the brief flash of pale light popping in and out of existence. “Eliksni… They’re called Eliksni.”

********

“No,” Zadie shook her head. She was searching for another name. “No, that’s not it.”

********

“Please don’t call me a liar!” Ghost cried. “I wouldn’t lie to you, I love you, I’m not a liar! Please, please don’t call me a-“

********

It startled her, and he’d already started rambling all quick and emotional before she managed to cut him off, shushing loud and raising her hands in a ‘stop’ sort of way. “That’s not what I meant. You’re not a liar, I know you’re not. I’m not calling you one.”

********

Stiff and deathly silent, it was almost scary. The lights that made up his optic eye were thin in every manner of the word, small and alarmed and pleading in raw emotion that was sudden in its burst and pure. It was pitiful and sad, and Zadie knew she wanted these cruelly pulling feelings of his to end and settle. Wanted to hold him, and let him find his own calming moment. While she hadn’t seen it the first day, when he’d first panicked at what he’d thought was her calling him a liar, it was fast learning and picking up on the nature of his person with what little she had to work with that made the look hurt. Not a kicked puppy, not necessarily betrayal. More of a ‘how could you think I’d hurt you?’ Heart broken look, being fought off by what she’d quickly tried to explain to him.

********

She had to make him feel better. That’s what he needed.

********

Locking her feet beneath the branch in an act of nerves, Zadie extended her palms out for him to touch. There was a flash of white and blue dancing across his shell, and then he was pressing against her palms, sitting light.

********

The unmistakable sense of vulnerability shook her. She could practically feel it herself, and her heart started racing a bit. He was silent still, peering up at her, the shapes of his optic slowly expanding in size and width and reverting back to the sharply tiny lines and dot like that of a flinch. Just as he had when she’d first woken, Zadie pursed her lips in a manner she hoped to be a coo. “Shhh… I didn’t mean that,” she gently murmured. His pupils went from still and locked to flickering, like they normally do. “And I’m sorry if I made you think that,” she added. “I’ve been thinking a lot, and I suppose I should mind my tongue when I do that, because I said something that made you feel cruelly horrid. I will never call you a liar. You’ve been nothing but honest, helpful,” his little body twitched to look up at her more, “and a valued friend for the short time I’ve known you. I know that’s not enough to make you feel better, but believe me. I don’t think you’re a liar. Why would you think I thought you a liar?”

********

Almost raspy, a sort of sound accompanied by clicks toned with him. “You… I thought you were thinking I was a liar. I was being honest. I was being honest, they’re called Eliksni. I would never lie to you. I love you.”

********

“And I don’t doubt that,” Zadie gently cooed. A few flicks of possibilities as to what would’ve made him so sensitive about it sparked a tiny bit of malcontent toward something unknown. “But I wasn’t calling you one, okay? I promise, I believe you. They’re called Eliksni, right?”

********

“Yes,” Ghost whispered. “The Fallen are the Eliksni. It’s just that most Risen call them Fallen, and I didn’t want you to be confused. I’m sorry if you think I’m a liar.”

“I don’t,” Zadie insistently cooed, “if anything, that was really thoughtful of you. You didn’t want me inconvenienced or embarrassed for not knowing something that was common knowledge, right?”

********

“Right,” Ghost said.

********

“So, you’re thoughtful,” She hummed.

********

“Yes! I don’t- I can’t lie to you,” he whimpered.

********

Shhhh. “I know,” Zadie murmured. He almost seemed to wiggle in her palm, and she gently rubbed her thumb down his metallic form. “I wasn’t calling you a liar… I was… thinking.”

********

“Thinking?” Ghost squeaked.

********

“Thinking,” Zadie nodded. “You were reminding me of something I’m trying to figure out, and I said something that made you think I was calling you a liar on accident.”

********

“Oh,” Ghost whimpered. “Oh.”

********

“Yeah, silly,” Zadie cooed. She offered him a little smile, tapping above his optic. “You’re my partner. I know you wouldn’t lie to me.”

********

A funny warm feeling spread in her chest, faint. Embarrassment, but not hers. His eye, still facing her, glanced away. “Sorry,” Ghost muttered.

********

“Sorry for what? You did nothing wrong,” Zadie breathed. His spherical body rolled in her palms, hovering up a bit. The feeling of embarrassment left with his touch.

********

“For calling you a liar,” Ghost finally squeaked out. Zadie laughed, and it seemed to startle him. “What?”

********

She shook her head. “You didn’t, sweet thing. You’re just worried, that’s all. I know you didn’t mean anything by it.”

********

Smiles were shared. There was no face to get this from for him, but it seemed naturally noticeable. Glittering blue and white appeared around him, the black and orange shell protecting his body retaking its place. “Right,” Ghost said. He looked to her hands as she moved them against bark, a longing of sorts filling his eye. “Right… thank you.”

********

“For believing you?”

********

“For understanding,” Ghost said. His shell squeezed himself. A sure, strong mannerism that spoke volumes she’d yet to grasp. “It’s just… most find me annoying.”

********

She wanted to grimace at whoever she had to blame for the mounted stress that hung hidden until triggered by selective pieces of wording. He was clearly hurting in a way that sensitized him to the thought of being called a liar. Being his Chosen may be the weight of it, sure, which would be tilting if simply being his Chosen was what caused such stress for such a sweet little being, but if there was another source or cause for it all, she hoped she could get rid of it. Help him feel better.

********

That was a promise. She wanted him to be proud and strong, and if she had to be with him for eternity, it seemed worth any and all trouble. Whatever it took to create security for him.

********

Zadie leaned forward and pressed her palms to the branch, remembering the celery she’d absentmindedly dropped into the fur around her torso. The strands of hair moved with a breeze she’d just now taken notice. Pressing against the breast of her shirt, it was easy to reach in and grasp the stalks, the leaves she’d yet to yank off in several separate rips rustling. She took to the task, dropping each leaf like forsaken petals. It didn’t take much of a glance to know the wolves and their deadly teeth still wandered near. Fallen. They’d been talking about Eliksni, the Fallen as Ghost referred to them.

********

Speaking of Fallen, Ghost had said earlier that he didn’t expect to come across any nearby, but to at least be cautious. He said that Fallen liked to torment Risen like her, either out of hate or envy for their connection to the Traveler, what the Fallen referred to as ‘the great machine’. ‘Newborns’ was what he’d initially said in place of Risen, a term that Zadie had tried to argue until he’d told her it was just his way of referring to the newly resurrected Risen, which had ceased her objection. They were usually around a few months of rebirth before he’d think of them otherwise.

********

Peckish, Zadie started on chewing one of the stalks, twisting it, creating a crunch. Uneven teeth marks made their place on the stalks, and she shifted the chunk she’d bit off into her cheek to allow room for clear speech. “So,” Zadie hummed, peaking back down to the unoccupied space beneath. The wolves may not be in sight, but they’d yet to leave if her previous experience with them meant anything. She’d have to wait some hours more to be sure. “Your shell… Why do you call it that? Do you and all the other eh, Ghosts, call it that or just you? Is there anything to influence how it looks when you’re made?”

********

Ghost flexed the piece of him in question differently than his usual way. He was still more quiet than usual, but if she could get him talking, maybe he’d feel better. “Well… we didn’t have these at first, actually.”

********

“Oh?”

********

Seeing she was interested, he flexed his shell close to his body in another squeeze. Good, he was feeling more ‘sure’. “When the Traveler shed parts of itself, all of us were bare. Uncovered. The only thing we had was each other, and the sense that we had someone we needed to find and raise up. Once it was discovered what we could do, humans made them as gifts for those of us who hadn’t already made our own shells. It offers protection from danger, and the bold who like to show it off during dangerous encounters their Risen often boast colorfully exotic shells that grant themselves and their Risen clearly powerful abilities with the Light infused in the shell. I’ve met some with exotic shells who kept hidden, though, so it’s not every Ghost that boldly boasts their cosmetics.”

********

Exotic shells. _**Would he like one?**_ “Do they not trust their Chosen to keep them safe?”

********

“It’s not that,” Ghost said, spinning in a ‘look around’ sort of way. She did. “It’s just that if we die because of something we didn’t see in time to hide, our Risen, our Chosen is vulnerable, and the Darkness may take them, or they may die horribly. The torture of the Hive to ourselves is enough of an influencer for Ghosts who are smart to hide, but… Zadie, I wouldn’t want you to experience even a moment of defenselessness. Risen who lose their Ghost aren’t the same after, and it isn’t just the loss of their Light. PTSD, suicide, survivor’s guilt, self harm, self exile, addiction… Risen and Ghost alike have seen the effects first hand. I know I have.” He readjusted his shelI, flicking his eye away. “I once knew a Titan built like an ox, with huge muscles and veins that were as obvious as a Psion amongst Legionnaires. Such a strong, proud man who went by Bear, with nothing but love and trust for his Ghost and friends. I was one of those friends. He understood I was still searching for you, and he was the bestest friend an unbounded Ghost could ever have. He was jolly, always kind. When his Ghost was crushed by Cabal before she could dematerialize to safety... For three years, he did nothing but drink, and he barely ate. He eventually shot himself. He had pushed all his friends and Fireteam away, lost along with his dignity and fitness to his addictions and newly found harsh manner of speaking, and it’d been weeks before the remains of a man who once boasted pique physical health and the thickest of glorious armor and furs had been found. I learned sometime after that the mess of his brain matter alone had taken a month to completely get rid of. I’d tried to help him. I’d tried to be the friend he needed in his time of need, like he once had been for me, even if it meant postponing finding you for eleven months of each year. He’d never believe me when I told him it’d be okay, would call me a liar if I told him there were ways to help when there really had been. I don’t… I don’t want you to ever have to feel that, Zadie. No Ghost wants their Chosen to suffer alone, a victim to themselves. As a pair, even facing Gods is less daunting than alone. The God Slayer’s Ghost keeps up the practice himself, and he’s still alive, so I’d say staying hidden is quite smart no matter how strong or exotic the shell.”

********

_**He doesn’t want me to think he’s a liar because it scares him. He loves me, and wants to help me in any way that he can, and he’s scared that if I think he’s a liar he won’t be able to help me at my lowest point. I need to trust him, and he needs to know that I do.** _

********

Aside from that anxiety, she was his partner he’d searched centuries for. He’d told her more than once. Near a millennia of searching, alone, and he loved her to pieces before he’d even met her. She’d be hurt too, she supposed, if someone she loved so dearly didn’t have trust in her or thought belittling things of her.

********

Her eye searched for a target. No sight of wolves. The glob of sweet, watery celery met the ground lonesomely.

********

A question she’d had for the few days they’d been together became realized, and her brown orbs aimed up at him. “If your model or race is called Ghost, then why do you keep it as a name?”

********

Ghost paused, flexing his shell. Always nervous. “What?”

********

“Ghost,” Zadie repeated. She’d feel bad if she’d forgotten if he’d told her, as she doesn’t want him to think she’s ignoring him, but she really couldn’t recall. Maybe it was the nervous outburst that made her forget. “That’s what your ‘type’ is called. Your race, your machine type. Why is it that you haven’t given yourself a name again?”

********

“Oh,” Ghost blurted. Just ‘oh’, like that was the only thought he knew to answer with. 'Oh,' a single, vague word. “It’s just… oh.”

********

He seemed surprised she’d asked. Zadie gave a single nod to him, trying to get him to speak. To share his thoughts, his reasons. Was it just not something Ghosts did? It felt odd, now, calling him Ghost. It was like having a brother named ‘Human’. Truthfully, she still wasn’t sure if ‘Ghost’ was a race or machine or what, just that it was a sort of… well, from what she gathered from Ghost, species. Drones. The more she thought about it, the more weird it was. Sure, Ghost and ‘Ghosts’ were differently associated. She knew who she was thinking of when she thought of ‘Ghost’. But, taking another chunk out of the stalks in her grip, she couldn’t help the ‘this is odd’ vibes that refused to leave. “Are you okay?”

********

“It’s just-“ Ghost went quiet before starting up again. “It’s just- just that- just-“

********

“Take your time,” Zadie prodded. She was obviously curious, and her mannerisms went against what she said, but she was trying to at least give him a sense of pacing.

********

Ghost made a sort of… sound. Clicks and whirs carried with it. “It’s… it’s just… for so long….” The sound was made again, and Zadie recognized it as emotional. “I don’t have one. I don’t have a name. By the Light, I’ve been waiting for you to give me one for so long that when I finally found you, I forgot to ask. I forgot to ask. I thought you’d just- just give me one, I never thought how you’d have to be explained about everything once you were rezzed. I’m sorry, I’m ruining this. It- this- I don’t know if you’re naming me. I don’t know if you’re naming me right now, and I’m making it awkward, I’m sorry.”

********

_**He wants me to give him a name.** _

********

“I’ve always wanted a name, honest,” Ghost continued. His pupils did another thing with how they dilated, but not quite the same as they had when he’d been distraught over his misconceived interpretation of her insinuating he’d been lying. “A special, true, unique name. Something just for me. It doesn’t matter if other Ghosts or humans or awoken or exo shared my name, it would be my name, and that’s what would matter. And I’d have a name. I’d have a name to be called, I’d have an identity, I’d have an- an- oh, oh I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

********

“Don’t be sorry,” Zadie gently cooed. Her cheeks burned at another breeze, and she once again took notice of it.

********

“Sorry,” Ghost quickly murmured. The embarrassment was obvious. Another ramble, another emotional outburst, however small in compared to his earlier one, where he’d been slightly shaky in her palm.

********

She’ll let him have that.

********

Spitting the half chewed celery off to the side, Zadie untwined her ankles, freeing her legs to swing slow and gentle. “So… you want a name.”

********

“Yes,” Ghost said, “yes, I do. Sorry.”

********

“And you’ve been waiting for me to give you one?” Zadie continued.

********

He was a bit quiet, his eye flicking a bit off to the side and onto her. “Yes. It’d be a special name. Any name you’d give me would be special. I’d love my name. Even if it was Shitface.”

********

Shitface?

********

Zadie broke out laughing, loud and full, a red filling her cheeks and a warmth separate from the cold filling her face and chest. “Shitface? You’d take that for a name? Really?”

********

“Well,” Ghost looked to the side as if he were simply looking around, but it was obvious it was just his nerves. “It’d be a name, would it not?”

********

He really DOES want a name! “Have you even met a Ghost with that name?”

********

“Yeah,” Ghost grumbled, distaste filling his features. At the surprised pause and raised brows imploring him for details, he added, “He really was a Shitface, that’s for sure.”

********

“Aw, what’d he do to get that name?” Zadie chuckled, the irresistible smile finally letting up its firmness. “Did his Chosen hate him or something?”

********

Thinking, Ghost went quiet. “He was just a shit face,” he said. “A really, really shitty shit face. So was his Risen.”

********

Hearing him cuss so much was pretty new. Not surprising, just new. “So they were just shitty? They didn’t do anything?”

********

Ghost squeezed his shell, letting her know he was sure of this. “No. No, they didn’t do anything.”

********

A slow nod. “They were just shit faces,” Zadie echoed.

********

“Yeah,” Ghost muttered. “I don’t know where in life they’re at now, but I bet they’re still jerks.”

********

Laughter dying down, the chuckles racking her body and warming her face brought a heavy sigh of finality, relaxing her and opening her up to more topics and thoughts. A small smile lingered on her lips. Names. She’d been subconsciously thinking of names. “I don’t think a name I know someone else has would be good for you,” Zadie hummed.

********

“You don’t have to pick that,” he quickly said. “It’s up to you. Whatever you want. A name is a name, and if it’s from you it’s perfect. No matter what the name is. I’ll wear it with pride, joy, and eagerness. Anything you want, anything. It’s up to you.”

********

“It’s up to me,” Zadie fondly echoed.

********

“It’s up to you,” Ghost repeated. A statement of finality.

********

A name. A unique, loving name. That’s what he wanted, and he wanted it for her. No matter how many times it was said, or repeated, the little mix of disbelief and various names intermingling amongst each other sweetly. Ghost was quiet, like he normally was when emotional and keeping himself from rambling. Sweet, caring, anxious, all for her. Not all of his projections and behaviors were caused or born through her, but they were still there, freely expressed and great in nature. Genuine, sincere, unrelenting even in his silence. He wanted her to be educated on whatever he thought may help her in the days yet to come, wanted her to be happy with him, adored her, wanted nothing but the best for her. He hid nothing from her that wasn’t unnecessary, and shared eccentric or random things in a manner that grew their increasingly clear bond. Whenever he’d have an outburst, as few as they were, it was all from his nerves, his worries, his traumas, and even then it wasn’t hate or anger. Sadness, anxiousness. Hope that she was okay, that she wasn’t unhappy, even when he himself was practically pleading for her not to think bad of him. He loved her. He’d removed poison from her veins.

********

He’d given her _**life.**_

********

In those quiet seconds, Zadie thought of what was important to her. He wanted a name from her, a special name. He’d get one.

********

“Adiv,” Zadie murmured.

********

He seemed to have zoned out, or at least didn’t seem to process his new name, because the stillness and silent forward staring lingered for some time. Then… “What?”  
“Adiv,” Zadie repeated. Her smile grew a bit at the dilating pupils. “Your name is Adiv.”

********

Silence. It felt so, so long, and the dilating of his now tiny pupils were the only thing showing how he felt. Zadie, without thought or care of how it’d feel, dropped the celery in the fur and extended her palms to him. His shell disappeared again, and he placed himself into her palms.

********

Strength. It was the only thing that was processed. Strength.

********

Emotion. Harsh, raw, beautiful. Waves and waves of silent, pure feeling. So strong and pure that it took a minute for her to even notice the shaking in her palms. Random, clearly unintended clicks, whirs and mechanical groans spontaneously taking the place of any words that could possibly even be considered. It knocked the breath out of her.  
Thoughts were difficult. The sheer, complete, absolute… it was pureness in every sense of the word, so extreme that there were no words she could find to explain it.  
Time passed. Little to nothing processed.

********

“T...t… t-thank…. You….”

********

Gratitude, adoration, purpose, glee, love. Zadie gasped harshly as contact with him ended and he popped up, spinning, cheering, boisterous, infectious in his complete and utter joy. “ _THANK_ YOU! THANK YOU _SO MUCH!_ ADIV, _ADIV,_ ADIV! IT’S _PERFECT,_ ADIV! MY NAME IS ADIV, I AM ADIV, I’M ADIIIIIIIV! _**WOOOOOOOOOO-HOOOOO!”**_

********

Adiv’s laughter was equally infectious, rackling her body with more joy than she’d ever thought to ever experience. Pure, pure, pure! He circled Zadie, he circled the branch, he circled himself, he spun, he cheered, and cried, he laughed, all at once. Zadie couldn’t help following wherever he went with her stare, not wanting to miss a single moment of such a great and wonderful moment. The feeling of, of a weight, of perfect greatness, it was obvious, it was shared, it was unspeakable. Zadie fished the stalks out of her furs, breaking them apart and throwing piece by piece at random omnidirectional in celebration.

********

Adiv. Adiv. Adiv.

********

_Adiv._

********

\------------------------------------------------------------------

********

_**Day Seven** _

********

_Hungry._

********

Visions of meat, of fish, of salmon strips. The taste and fullness filling her up, smoked or burnt or perfectly existing. Zadie was hungry. Four days of wandering, seven days of life, of being chased up trees by irritating wolves, four days of hunger, four days of interrupted opportunities for food she’d eat.

********

She wanted a rabbit to eat and butcher with the machete wrapped to her calf. She wanted to avoid rabbits, so she didn’t do that to them.

********

Rabbits.

********

Zadie bit absentmindedly at the sharp end of a stone as she snapped a branch, expression fixed. Advi. She liked to think about Advi. It was a good way to take her mind off food.  
Animals, off animals.

********

“Are you… okay?”

********

Long grass and bendy twigs pressed tight, connecting the stick and stone. It lacked a feather, like the rest of her arrows, but it was what she had and she needed it to work. She needed it to work so she could eat. “Yes.”

********

“I know you’re hungry,” Advi said quietly. Zadie didn’t look at him. “But… I think I can help.”

********

“Eating grass won’t help,” Zadie grumbled. She tightened the tie, pinching the stone to test its integrity. It was loose, incorrectly placed and tied. Her lips dragged down, hidden by her hood. “I need to be hungry. I won’t be trying my hardest if I’m not hungry. When I find something, I’ll hunt it.”

********

Zadie cussed, breaking the already useless stick. Her knuckles, pale with her light headed face, squeezed. She breathed harshly, irritated, full of desire. Want. Need. Hunger pangs weren’t nearly as strong each day that passed without eating, but their after effects lingered as strong as ever. Zadie was a mover. She walked, she ran, she climbed, she searched for hunts. She didn’t like feeling dizzy and weak. She needed energy.

********

She needed to eat. Never mind the snowfall, light as it was right now. It was still an issue. The night before, the wolves tormented her, loud and waiting, keeping her from making even the smallest of fires up in the trees, exhausting her into gripping the trunk when no branch was found. She’d almost killed one, but for whatever reason she’d decided against it last second and slackened on the draw, returning the arrow to her makeshift quiver. It was cold, a cold that far surpassed what she’d gotten used to. Her arms burned, her breath was thickly visible and white. She seldom managed sleep, and that’s how she learned of Advi’s habit of staring at her when he thought she wasn’t awake. He’d disappear whenever she’d stir, nervous she’d think he was weird if caught. Not something she wanted to learn regarding her companion’s habits, though the harmlessness of it all kept her quiet about her discoveries. She hadn’t been this tired since the day she’d given him his name. 

********

Advi had kept her awake with murmurs, distant cheers he’d moved further away so as not to be too loud, and constant repeats of his newfound identity, keeping to himself, sometimes focusing on her and sometimes not. The wolves hadn’t wanted to leave with the source of sound so loud and close to them.

********

This was different.

********

Rabbits.

********

Earlier, Zadie could’ve killed one. It was right in her hands, kicking and terrified, releasing little shrieks and shaking under the fingers that pinched the nape of its neck, the other hand squeezing its lower body to keep it from scratching or biting back. “I can’t,” she’d said. “It’s so small. It’s so small, and so soft. It’s not right to eat it.” And she’d pushed it back into the little hole she’d ripped it out of, causing the snow that’d filled the space between the fur pelt and her shirt and the flakes melting against the bare minimum heat of her face, hands and arms only to lightly frost over again to all be for nothing.

********

Did the stress of encountering a bipedal giant kill it?

********

Probably not.

********

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------

********

_**Day Eight** _

********

Snow was her enemy, cold and harsh. Snow was her friend, giving her a clear trail for a hunt. The wolves had left alone for much longer than normal. That didn’t mean they were gone, just that she had more opportunity to find something to eat.

********

Advi had been helping her best he could, the pale light prodding at her during futile attempts for sleep. The decency of her first few days ironically snowballed further down into something bad.

********

Returning where she’d first been awakened wasn’t an option. She was stubborn, and she was far.

********

A hunt was near. Zadie will find it. Given the tracks in the snow, she already had.

********

It’d taken a lot of freezing water, shivering limbs and previously dried up dirt, but Zadie eventually had her pits and other smelly areas lathered in a nice coat of mud to make herself less noticeable scent wise. She wasn’t quite sure if it would work, but it was something, and the wolves should be another few hours until they’d be on her again, so she might as well try.

********

No bait, only tracks to find normal food. Normal, as in Zadie still refused to touch rabbits for nutrition unless she was full on starving. Rabbits were off limits, but a growing interest for squirrels had her eyeing holes in the trees on occasion. These naturally occurring little rules for herself were unnecessary from a survival standpoint, sure, but it didn’t mean she’d give them up. As Advi had once mentioned, she had a lot of muscle memory and inclination for usually relearned skills from her past life before she’d woken up.  
Many of the tracks were scuffed and all over the place some ways forward, as if there’d been something else tracking the deer that’d encountered and spooked it off. Zadie didn’t really hold that much resentment for whatever chased it off. She just hoped there was surplus meat to make a fire for.

********

Smoked, plain deer. A meal fit for a hungry, irritable Hunter.

********

Continuing after the tracks and the uneven snow around them, Zadie recalled the berries she’d eaten. Eager and tired, she’d foolishly tried more berries she’d been unfamiliar with as she’d passed them. The result, unlike the red berries, had been more rejective for her system than harmful. Advi quickly took care of the vomiting, but she’d been discouraged to try any berry sense. Exhaustion played with the mind in many ways. The risk of finding and eating more harmful berries while under the impression they were good ones was something she was aware enough to actively avoid eating any. It was a foolish policy regarding berries she’d already tried, like grapes, but… it was fair. In her tired, hungry state, though logic and other thoughts clash, it was fair. It didn’t feel fair, but it was fair, and that was that.

********

It was an argument that repeated in her mind.

********

It was fair. That was fair. It was fair. That was-

********

As quiet as she could manage, Zadie nearly threw herself into the brush once she’d gotten visual of a reddish brown coat covered by white flakes, calm as could be with its head aimed downward, drinking from a little stream. Large, proud antlers adorned the buck’s head, announcing his status as a male. If he moved when she was trying to get a shot…  
Automatically, Zadie drew back the string, slow and careful.

********

To get its attention, she made a short, sharp whistle. A now alert, stiff buck lifted its head straight at her.

********

Whistling through the air right and sure, the arrow implanted itself into the buck’s body. He screeched, jumping forward, then skidding to the side and running back toward her, then repeating the process with sprinting, uncoordinated legs another direction, blood dripping and blotching beneath him all the while. He eventually took to the stream, leaping through the shallows in a futile attempt to make distance from the creature that had harmed him.

********

With fast, focused strides, Zadie had her bow aimed down and another arrow notched as she rushed across. Water, cold and chilling, barely went up past the flat of her boots, but the movement was enough to splash her pants and create a silent promise for tiny icy flakes.

********

Advi was, at least, enthusiastic in her place. “Great shot!”

********

Warm pride filled her chest. An almost smug smirk briefly interjected the constant expression she’d worn for the last few days.  
Indeed it was.

********

The smell of iron became suddenly thick and heavy in the freezing air. Shivering and ready for something to rip out, Zadie took to looking around for the expected corpse or crying deer. If the buck still lived, she’d kill it first. Then she’d gore it. Torture was unecessary, and while a sloppy or clean shot with an arrow - as decent as it was - still harmed the animal, hunting was actually necessary. The need for food was necessary.

********

Blood started to become heavy, thick, lined pools strangely huge for a puncture wound with the cause of the injury still in the body trailed into a small clearing. She hurried.

********

Not even stopping to consider that tracks were no longer just that of deer. Blood ironed the smell of the air, inciting sniffs. It worried her, even if she did like the smell.

********

…. She came across the still, silent buck and its severed, ripped off leg, a bloody, lethal deed evidently done barely even minutes before. Piled beside it, five pink wolves lay dead, white and grey furs lathered in blood nearby from their skinnings. Supplies, Zadie realized. Pelts for warmth, from the very harassers she’d come to hate over the course of a week and more.

********

Four armed humanoids in furs and purple cloths, despite their hidden faces and turned back, were clearly irritated and speaking in a language that Zadie couldn’t understand. Insect like chittering suddenly ceased any words, and the two lifted their heads, taking sniffs.

********

_“Fallen!”_ Advi quietly gasped. With their four eyes snapping to the new voice, the growl of the taller one and his thick, furry hood became deep and loud the moment he laid eyes on Advi. Wisely, Advi dematerialized, albeit at the cost of leaving her silent and alone.

********

Alone, at least visually.

********

Stalking forward, the long rod boasted two ends dancing with painful electricity. Even at the distance she had on it, the hairs of her arms still stood, tingling. The growling became more evident as speech, hateful as it may clearly be.

********

The sense of betrayal, of haunting, returned. Fear.

********

Zadie snapped up her bow, releasing the unsteady arrow and scurrying away, not sticking around to see if the arrow hit its mark. Unsteady ripples of a cloaking mechanism disengaged at the firm implant of her boot against the Eliksni’s stomach made contact, knocking the female with her head wrapped off balance. Just as the female reached for her blaster, Zadie arched the machete above her head and brought it down diagonal, the machete crashing into the female’s throat halfway up the width of the blade with the force of its airtime. A screech was cut off halfway, misty-blue gas spilling out from the wound.

********

Crackling, something popped. Then… Pain in her stomach, a large cloud and burst of bloody mist in the air. Burning, singing, dancing in her body. A similar, more spurting reaction came from her throat, the unseen-but-felt arc stretching into her skull.

********

Zadie gasped, sharp and sudden, as she reappeared not far off from where she’d originally been shot. She’d - they’d killed her. She just died, and she’s alive! Her hand gripped her stomach, the source of agony just moments before. Her stomach was still there. It hadn’t been before, but it was now.

********

A grimace dragged her features and lightly wrinkled her forehead. She didn’t want to feel that _ever_ again.

********

Advi reappeared suddenly with a fidgety shell, voice quick. “We have to get you out of here. They won't stop until we’re both dead, and you don’t have much to fight with. I’m so sorry, I should’ve kept an eye out, I thought they wouldn't have still been around after- after the village!”

********

Zadie ducked down as a chunk of wood burst off the side of the tree with a loud crackle and boom. Electricity danced across the tree, burning dark marks in before disappearing. She let out a breath, eyeing the distance between her and some trees a bit further off, uninterrupted by open space.

********

_**I can make it.** _

********

Irrational. But fearful.

********

She made a full spri-

********

Another gasp, heavy breathing. Zadie was rezzed another short distance away. She brought a few fingers to her head, a silent thanks to the shooter for the immediate nature of her second demise. They’re accurate.

********

They wanted her dead.

********

Squeezing shut her lids, she tugged out an arrow, pulled the bowstring back, and waited. The hissing and growls in a strange tongue made at least a few of their locations obvious. Dragging sounds weren’t too far off, presumably the skins, and the Eliksni didn’t seem to be getting any closer than they had been previously. On the defensive, enraged by the killing of one of their own but wise enough to test the waters of this lonesome Risen’s experience with fighting them, or at all, before trying anything. But how ready were they, how ready was she, how fast would they shoot, how fast would she shoot? Zadie cut the string some slack, no longer in a position of security and readiness to let an arrow lose. Adrenaline, she realized, was keeping her awake and alert. That’d be a rough crash when it came down. Despite the five dead, matching wolves, she couldn’t help the quiet moan of distaste at the reminder that they’d ‘follow her’ again.

********

Exhaustion really was a weird thing.

********

Hopefully, this wouldn’t lose her a hand. Even in the back of her mind where she was reminded that Advi could not only resurrect her, but also heal any injuries, pain in large amounts was completely unwelcome.

********

Slowly extending her hand out past the tree, she held it there for a few moments and snapped her balled up fist to her chest the moment she heard the charging of one of their blasters. The crackling remained, eerily awaiting a single misstep from her left, but the holder didn’t move for a better visual on her.

********

“Help me get out of here,” Zadie quietly pleaded. Advi, briefly appearing, snapped his fleeting, jittered gaze to her. He went silent, disappearing. Zadie’s heart dropped, expecting him to be gone for good no matter how deeply she knew he’d return. For a good thirty seconds, Zadie became more sweaty and stressed by the second, it was just her and the lingering sense of dread they’d sneak up and harm her. The threat of cold death meeting with her once again, splattering any bit of her into more red snow, created a deep want to avoid the Eliksni more than anything else in the world. It shook her quite a bit, ripping her from a steady confidence she didn’t even realize she could lack.

********

Unspeakable relief expanded in her chest and she released a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding when Advi suddenly reappeared, hushed and speedy in every way. “Follow me.”

********

She wasn’t about to complain. Only a few minutes ago, she’d been hunting, ready to eat for the first time in a day. A few hours extra, she’d been toying with wolves that had wanted to eat her for a week.

********

Now she was running for her life, and it was entirely jarring.

********

No matter how quick she dragged her feet or lifted them high in more efficient sprints, the Eliksni kept up, cautious of the Risen they hunted but still enraged. Chunks of trees would splinter and pop in front of her, imbedding tiny toothpicks of wood into her skin in the occasional blast of screeching wood. It didn’t matter how much she huffed, or ran, or let loose an arrow at random against them. They were persistent, running atop and amongst the trees amongst their equally vengeful brethren, and Zadie was just another inexperienced Risen for them to hunt down and torment. Like a toy.

********

Zadie threw her weight down to the side as a marauder threw herself at Zadie, using her momentum to keep herself going steady after the overshot pounce and briefly sparing the marauder wielding twin blades a turned head to let loose one of three arrows left. Zadie didn’t waste time to see where she’d hit the female. The consistent, loudly pained screeches were enough to let her know she’d hit some part of the female’s body.

********

**THUMP**

********

The ground came rushing forward, and she was met with unsteady blackness and light. That didn’t mean she stopped, scrambling to postpone the meeting of her face and the dirt. It didn’t mean she could stop. Maybe Advi was taking the risk to help her, maybe she just got lucky and whatever smacked into the back of her head had just disoriented her.

A fall. Fallen. They wouldn’t want to fall. So, if SHE falls…. She can get away!

********

Half lidded and rushed, her boots, squeaking and squelching, exponentially increased their volumes. Fall. Fall. Fall. She had to fall. A fall was undesirable to the Fallen.  
In her delirium and exhaustion, it made sense. Like the berry rule, it made sense.

********

“NononoNONONONONO _**DON’T-”**_

********

Not even sure when she’d met with the edge, Zadie jumped, abandoning the enraged shrieks of vengeful Eliksni.

********


	2. Warlock’s Psyche

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PTSD and self degredation doesn’t care about the experiences of day-to-day. You’ll feel its hold anywhere, serving as a strong reminder no matter how different from the cause. Bolts doesn’t want to admit it - or, rather, can’t - but everyone else already sees it to some extent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I’m so excited, I really am! I got 8 views in several days and I didn’t even promote this anywhere!!
> 
> I’m sorry if any of this gets confusing at any point, but do keep in mind these chapters are third person POVs for a reason. I add lots of detail to make it as entertaining as possible while also adding to the world of Destiny as much as I can. I am not a perfect writer, so I may not portray everything as its meant to be, but I still wanna know what you guys think of it. How am I doing so far?
> 
> I won’t distract you any further. Read on ^^

_**Chapter One - Bolts-3** _

The scribes are familiar with their own tales and ancient warnings speaking of misadventure, and the more she recalled, Bolts would always notice how each sailor, each pirate long before the Golden Age, every greedy or well meaning human man had a goal to keep to their own little guidelines. Guidelines, varied and vague, that sometimes simply were ‘obtain the treasure. Abstain from this, complete those steps.’ Get to a point in life where the treasure would be searchable. It wasn’t always treasure. Sometimes, it was a woman. Others, it was power or relations with a fairytale that layered so thick in a tapestry of history that they were considered factually existing entities. Women with fish tails, their organs and nervous systems unable to remove waste from an otherwise unlikely resemblance to human females themselves, yet still their voices, their focus, was on men who thought themselves targets. Paranoia was a natural human trait. Paranoia was fear bridging through the thinly lined veil of caution, ingrained in the mind of its changed host.

Her sister was the perfect candidate for paranoia, who acknowledged and valued its presence for wary readiness. Even the unexpected could be met with unshackled, brutal even mindedness. “So long as you are not lost to it,” Rivet had once said, “fear will keep you alive and thinking. Socially, tactically, over great lands, in the stars, it changes what you are ready for. If it consumes you, you are lost to a life of unneeded terror and the irritable wrongdoing of your capability as an efficient Hunter, Warlock, Titan, or warrior.” School children with care but rejection for participating in the completion of their studies and the warrior, the argument compared, had equal opportunity for expectations around themselves. Out of context, it was a pathetically strange and weak saying, but the anecdote surrounded everyone. For most, it was minor. For those that noticed it, they’ve already the grip of opportunistic, blind visionaries.

In short, the situations of day-to-day life will never be the same regarding education and self indulging danger, but to be ready for anything, even if it was your fault, even if you do not have the capability to remove the misconvenience that will befall you, considering all possibilities of anything without even the earliest of warnings can act as the stepping stone to readying for the unseen.

Philosophy is argued by those that wish for the best outcome, and the slightest difference could change the argument of a bored or interested engagement. Frustration could tilt and curve the importance of something away from what was originally being aimed, no matter how much it sounded as though those involved had changed their course or remained dead center on whatever they’d started on. It didn’t take two people in direct or distant contact with each other to continue an argument, either. Such as right now, where everything built up somehow in different and similar contexts that were difficult to piece together, and impossible to completely match up.

Paranoia, as more commonly stated by Bolts and many other older Risen, is essential. At the very least, it’ll expand the thoughts and shift what’s expected from a stiff, singular motive to something flexible enough to adjust. Without context, without full understanding on all accounts on how things are interpreted, understood as, or even the true understanding of the opposite side’s thoughts and feelings on a matter, for instance, anything said could lead astray.

Paranoia. It is good, except for when it isn’t. Unstable and stronger pressing, paranoia and the demand to come to a standstill with all her biases and thoughts loomed over Bolts in even her louder hours of the day, where she didn’t sit in the silent company of her Ghost or sister or brother and think. No silence, no noise, no bullet or ravaging claws settled it, and the constant notice of its presence and different than usual effect was a cause of concern.

While not related by blood or flesh, Rivet was her sister. Aryeh, Rivet’s lover since the trio’s shared young age and first years, her brother. And still, Bolts did not share this with them. Without full understanding of her mind, they could never truly help with what plagued her conscious hours. And she accepted this as fact that could be wrong, or incorrect, for in the event that they could, she shouldn’t reject it.

Paranoia for being wrong. It created enough leeway for the wise to find help and seek counsel.

A small chuckle vibrated and flashed orange in her throat. This all made her sound like an old king. Sassy Dassy would find it amusing and tease her to no end if she heard what went on in her Chosen’s head.

Quick and lean, the figure joining her at the bar table had been one she’d expected. “Awful quiet there for a Warlock. Ain’t you supposed to be chatty?”

There’d been no plans to meet here, nor at this time on this night, but it’d been a possibility to happen, and she’d joked to Dassy about how unlikely it was, but Cayde was still a welcome, more direct addition of background noise and company, especially in compared to the regulars that recognized but barely spoke to her. It wasn’t one of those buddy-buddy nights.

Bolts rose the cylinder glass, swishing the half inch of whiskey in greeting despite the lack of seats between them. “Hard to talk when I’m alone.”

Dassy suddenly appeared between them. “Not true!”

“Hey Sassy Dassy,” Cayde nodded. It was hard not to notice the humorous mannerisms he carried with his every act. “How ya doin’?”

“Stuck with a Guardian that never talks,” Dassy chipped. Bolts barked a singular laugh at the irony, drawing an astounded ‘wha-buh-what’ from the Ghost. “I practically haven’t existed lately! Sheeesh, you neglect me!”

“Just because I’m quiet,” Bolts sipped at the whiskey, absentmindedly noting how she was glad for the simulated burn Exos were given, “doesn’t mean you don’t exist.”

Blue optics drew themselves to Dassy, and after a moment, Cayde opened his palm before him. Sundance came to, nodding at Dassy. They shared some clicks, and with the former inching toward the latter, they both dematerialized together. Cayde promptly inched to the edge of his seat, lowering his voice. “So, what drives a Warlock to think. Wait, don’t tell me - it’s ‘cause you miss me.”

“Not by a long shot,” Bolts cooed. Cheek plates shifting slightly like that of a smile, she playfully wiggled her shoulders. “But it might be part of it.”

He gave a dramatically offended gasp, putting a servo to his chest. “Whaaat? Dassy’s right, you _are_ neglectful!”

Shaking her head, Bolts felt the stimulating warmth from his arrival drift back down with the joyful nature of her grin. “Cute.”

Now, she wasn’t in a bad mood by any means, but the untamed, normally settled nature of her scattered thoughts made things difficult to focus on and get into. Even what was in front of her. Rivet and Aryeh had taken notice, and Aryeh, with his quiet, straightforward nature had been the first to implore about these changes. It’d been obvious she didn’t have an answer, and the two no doubtedly share their vague awareness of just how changed she was. It was a cause of concern for Rivet, and for Bolts, but who knows? It could just be one of those changes every Risen goes through.

Cayde must’ve noticed too, because his face settled out of the light hearted nature he usually put on. It wasn’t fake, per se, just exaggerated a bit sometimes.

Soft fingertips pressed to her back, gently dragging alongside the ridges that made up a mechanical spine. “What’s wrong? Sister doin’ alright?”

“She’s fine,” Bolts briefly murmured. “Yeah. Yeah, she’s fine.”

The fingers softly retreated, and she followed the hand with yellow optics as it placed itself on his knee. “You want to walk with me?”

“Yeah, that’d be nice.”

Both Guardians made a gesture to their respective Ghosts, the two wishing farewells and goodbyes to the Ghost of a Hunter leaning back in his chair with his feet on the table staring up at the three with tired, tipsy eyes. At the leave of its newfound acquaintances, it’d returned to its Chosen, nudging at the dark, coal colored disheveled hair on his head.

That dude needs to get more sun. He’s almost as white as Aryeh’s shoulder plates.

Aryeh’s shoulder plates! Damn things were bright as Hell. Their bright, reflective shapes were enough to make even Rivet complain to him in the high sun, and Rivet didn’t care about vanity. He’d always give a big smile when it was mentioned, proud of his armor and the traits that accompanied him wearing it. Rivet’s complaints were enough to sway him, however, to at least wear something else when he could. Aryeh was no fool seeking to seethingly annoy those around him. He could be loud in his excitement or when having fun, but he was a respectful, respected man for a reason, and would change his armor when needed.

His looks and voice also factored in how people took to him, but the man with dark brown skin and kindly proud eyes was unwavering in his faithfulness to Rivet. Even in the Dark Age. That’d bought Bolts’ respect since. Even when she’d been young, foolish and trusting, she still had standards regarding others.

They paid off a multitude of times, morphing her overtime into who she was today.

Having once again retreated to her thoughts, she’d almost missed Cayde mentioning how he had to help Quil-13 again earlier. Poor thing was slowly losing her mind. Slower than her husband Banshee - honestly, it really was a nice pair - but even Exo who inevitably faced resets more slowly reached a point like that of madness. No object permanence, no ability to maintain memories. It was best to simply let them pass on when they get to that point. If she hadn’t been Risen by Dassy, she’d have just rusted away, intertwined with Rivet’s body just as she and Rivet had spent their first moments. Their Ghosts had been traveling together since the Traveler had shed them, a semi-common occurrence for Ghosts at some point in their searches, and it’d been an almost perfect miracle they’d Chosen the both of them at the same time.

_I’m glad I got Dassy. I don’t think I’d have been able to handle not having another chatterbox, and I don’t think Rivet would’ve much enjoyed having Dassy as her Ghost._

Ugh, why is she thinking so far back? She already knew all of this! Bolts tried to tune into what Cayde was saying.

“-so yeah, Quil’s prolly gonna lose it soon,” Cayde murmured. Bolts had met Banshee through Cayde, and met Quil through Banshee. Her quiet nature went well with the gruffly loving sniper-turned-gunsmith.

Bolts nodded a bit at that. The woman used to make armor and clothes as a business until she’d realized she’d forgotten she even had the job so often that she’d shut the shop down entirely. Nobody needed to ask why. Many Guardians still miss her craftsmanship. “Do you think… Banshee realizes?”

“He has to,” Cayde muttered. “I think he just won’t admit it. You know someone that long, and they’re falling apart in front of you, and they’ve forgotten the extent they’ve seen you fall apart over time… Thanks, by the way, Sundance.”

“And you, Dassy,” Bolts quickly added.

Neither needed to explain the reference to both their immortality and lack of need for resets. Scary stuff.

Most would probably find talking about their deteriorating friends to their significant other as the first order of business every time they saw each other as awkwardly morose, but they always updated each other on how the Gunsmith and his bird loving wife were doing. It was always nice to hear Quil was still alive, or that Banshee wanted to play poker.

Cheating at poker against Banshee is damn near impossible. Cayde may be slick and quick fingered, but Bolts is a Warlock and loose sleeves were practically expected. She didn’t even need the sleeves, just the right moment and thwip, oh look, the winning card. If it weren’t that it made her feel bad, Banshee having immediately taken her wrist and yanked the false card out of her fingers definitely would’ve been the leading cause to her ceasing that practice immediately. At least against him. She had too much respect for Rivet to do it to her, and Aryeh was usually uninterested in poker, but at that moment she’d wanted to just see how it went. Still, it usually worked against random people. Usually drunk ones that didn’t notice she wore an armband marking her for what she was with its fancy little projections. But other Guardians when she’d pull her little trick? It was usually a 50/50. Titans normally found her ‘little tricks’ funny. Other Warlocks would give her a look that asked if she was dumb, and would either leave or one up her in switched out cards, and Hunters? Hunters took Poker fucking serious. One woman demanded a knife fight for the pot upon her Fireteam member calling out what Bolts had done, and they ended up settling for whoever could stab a knife the fastest between their fingers the fastest and longest without losing a joint. By some miracle, Bolts won at that middle table surrounded by chants and yelling by two dozen other Guardians, and was promptly locked into a fist fight with a very pissed off Hunter. Aryeh ended up yanking the rabid chick off of her, and the end result had been a banning from the establishment and red jacks issuing warnings about Guardians fighting in physically violent ways outside of the Crucible.

So yeah, that’s how she got harassed with a month’s worth of pings in a single day from a pissy-

“Bolts?” A hand waved before her face. “Hell-oooo?”

Crap. Now she felt bad. “Before you ask, I spaced out. Say that again?”

She didn’t need to look to hear the frown in his voice. “I wasn’t talking.”

Oh. Well, it’d been a possibility, and she felt grateful for her random expectations. Paranoia. Socially, it helps prevent embarrassment. Wait, this is going off track, too. Bolts stopped it before she could doze off into that, too. The fingers placed to the temple of her head, she took a moment to realize, were hers. With a jolt, it dawned she’d done something without realizing she’d done it. It’d been so long since she’d done something like that, that it hadn’t been expected. Add that to something to work on. Bolts was no child. She didn’t toy around with lies and dramatics when those lies weren’t fought against like the teenagers of the modern day. If it weren’t for that and his own trust in her nature, there’d no doubtedly have been some form of ‘okay, I’ll just go’ or sarcastic comment. Personal and involved matters like these, though, were different. They spawned different reactions from everyone, because they actually mattered more to the individual than- stop thinking!

“You wanna uh, you wanna- wanna add to the wall?” Bolts asked. It came out stuttered and jumbled, but it made its way through eventually.

Cayde looked out into the distance, making a sort of hum. “Bolts-3 wants to vandalize the walls belonging to the last safe haven for an almost extinct species. And right under the Traveler. What a Devil.”

Ha-ha. “Not that wall,” Bolts groaned, “the wall. Y’know, the slab that all the Warlocks add to in the study?”

“... The Warlock only study hall? That even Zavala’s not allowed into?”

It was more of a statement than a question. Cayde moved his hands as if to emphasize each and every addition of detail at her lack of denial. “The one sponsored by Ikora that’s slap dab in the middle of the tower? Where there’s nowhere to run and full of snooty, silence demanding Warlocks?”

“For a Hunter, you seem quite familiar with it,” Bolts commented. It wasn’t the best idea to get herself focused and it’d undoubtedly not work, but if she had something to do and get into, maybe that’d help.

“I’ve had enough experiences with TWESH regulars to know that not all Cryptarchs are passive,” Cayde waved her off. “Besides, Ikora doesn’t like it when I go in there. I swear, you can breathe in there and you’re ‘too loud’.”

Sounds about right. At least it was quiet.

The Warlock Exclusive Study Hall, abbreviated as the TWESH, had been created after numerous complaints from the city’s Warlocks regarding a lack of quiet, information filled places to meditate and study. The Wilds were dangerous and filled with random nuisances otherwise embraced and beloved by Hunters. Even simple birds annoyed enough Warlocks just trying to find somewhere quiet to meditate that Ikora herself suggested reforming the usually unoccupied library into something even the pickiest of Warlocks would consider ‘adequate’ enough for their time. While not all Warlocks were like that - well, obviously, look at Bolts - it was better to help those that were. A snooty Guardian was still a Guardian, and it was important to have all hands on deck.

United, we are strong. Not as strong as the God Slayer, but still strong enough to make what remained of the Red Legion quiver. The army’s name left a bitter taste in her mouth.

Bolts would never forget those months of agony and fear. The God Slayer had personally taken the task of slaughtering the Cabal he came across in his quest of enraged vengeance, and the distant Light and its sheer power could be felt for miles. Flames so hot it warmed the cold, Arc so powerful generators popped, Void so entrancing even a Nightstalker felt the cold nerves once shared amongst nearly all Guardians regarding the controversial use of its power. Only when the Traveler woke did Dominus Ghaul get what he deserved - absolute annihilation, but the God Slayer did his best with what he had. Meanwhile, Bolts had felt like a child, held sacredly close in Rivet’s gentle embrace as the two had pressed against Aryeh for warmth. Aside from his size and naturally radiating heat, even without his Light he ensured at least decent nights under the thinnest of furs.

With his Light, Aryeh had a special touch for Solar that complimented his warm body. Rivet’s Light leaned more toward Void, so it’d been especially crucial for her and Aryeh to embrace. Exo or not, they still felt cold, and even without their Light the slight effect of their specialities affected just about every Guardian. And it hurt.

Thank the Traveler for Aryeh. It hadn’t been the first time he’d acted as an improvised heater, but it certainly had been the most important time he had to take the responsibility. She hadn’t been completely helpless, but the fear and helplessness she felt for herself, for Dassy, for her Sister, her Brother, just the completely alien situation…

Stop thinking about it. Back to the present.

_**Bolts you dumbass, you can’t even focus on what’s in front of you even after acknowledging it was a problem!** _

Okay, recount it all… It hadn’t even been a few seconds! And Cayde clearly knew she’d spaced out again. Well, not necessarily spaced out. Got lost in her thoughts. Yeah, got lost in her thoughts, _totally_ different. That’s what it is.

“Y’know…” Cayde drawled. Her optics snapped to him, and she straightened the lacking posture. “We can do this another time if you want.”

Huh? “Do what?”

He spread his hands in a ‘see’ motion, and it finally hit her he was offering to add to the TWESH board when she had a day she was more collected. How did that slip through so easy? Why was she thinking so negative about such minor inconveniences? “You’re not well.”

As mentioned earlier, she was no school girl. And he didn’t associate any of those traits with her. So it was surprising- why is it surprising? Why is it that she keeps, keeps not expecting these things right after listing off how expecting everything was good?

This was what Rivet and Aryeh noticed. A negative change. And they wanted her to be okay. Bolts already knew this, but it seemed to repeat. Why? Why why why why?

Why, there’s a why for everything. Why?

Clinging to the rarity of such an opportunity, Bolts took to forming a way to enthuse the idea back to him. To make it appealing, and fun, as it was clear though he’d still be willing to do it, but the uncertainty of whether he’d feel obligated at that point caught her tongue. Without careful consideration of what to say, anything could happen. She leant toward wanting to pull off the stunt, but swayed at the concept at the strange pressing, degrading the security of his opinion on her. Thinking, thinking, no matter how much she told herself to stop.

Paranoia. If you let it consume you, it’ll be your ruin.

Everything locked in place.

“Like I said,” Cayde pulled on his hood, bringing it over his horn. It slid down. “We can do it another time.”

“Look, I’m sorry-“

“I’m not mad,” he insisted, “you just look like you need some time to yourself. Thought I’d stop by and see you, but Bolts needs time to herself… well,” he shrugged. “I’m not in charge of you. ‘Sides, I got Vanguard duty.”

Once again, Bolts was reminded of how rare an opportunity this was for him. For the both of them. This whole situation was so stiff, and it made her feel guilty- wait. Her jaw dropped. Bolts slapped his shoulder, eliciting a laugh at her delayed realization. “You sunuvabitch!”

“That reverse psychology finally getting through?” Cayde teased.

It’d all been to get her thinking, just to suddenly have a break of a more positive stimuli. And dammit, it worked. Bolts offered Sundance an almost exasperated sort of half bow and spread of her arms. “Congratulations on rezzing the most manipulative Hive God to ever ascend.”

“Wouldn’t you know it,” Sundance gleefully purred. She’d been awfully quiet until now, Bolts realized. That or Bolts had been so focused on Cayde she hadn’t been paying attention to the pair of chatty Ghosts.

Dassy bumped the blue fin of the exotic shell she oh-so loved to show off against Sundance’s. “That’s my Guardian’s title, thank you very much!”

“Hey! Inheritance is a marriage thing!”

“Last I checked, I rezzed my Guardian first!”

“Don’t matter, read the legal papers. It alllll belongs to him!”

“What does?”

Sundance rolled her optic in a large motion. “Surviving Hive God titles,” Sundance quipped. “Ones the God Slayer hasn’t gotten mad at just yet.”

Cayde piped up at the mention of the God Slayer. He had many titles, but that was the first he’d earned and the one the God Slayer with no name was more known for. “Ohhhh, we’re talking about my friend now, are we?”

“Friend?” Bolts scoffed. “He doesn’t even talk, Cayde. You’ve spoken to him, what? Five times?”

“He stops by every so often,” Cayde shrugged. A finger aimed its way at her. “I don’t see you getting visits from a fellow legend, now do I?”

Bolts crossed her arms, quaking an optic ridge in an attempt to raise it. The slight motion spoke volumes for the motion it only partially resembled. He seemed to realize his error, or what she considered to be one. “Hey, now, don’t get me wrong. I’m legendary, but I’m not a fellow legendary. See, when you take things out of context-“

“Sure,” Bolts drew out. “Sure, sure, sure. That’s what you said.”

“It is!”

“Sure.”

“Oo, oo, lover’s quarrel!” Dassy shouted. The pair froze, and the looks started directing themselves their way.

The whispers started. Most notably, between a tall woman with muscle and a banner hanging from her hip, representing a Clan she was proud of. “Is that Cayde-7?”

From a short woman wearing a hood, “His name is Cayde-6 dumbass! S-I-X, six!”

“Don’t call me a dumbass, short-ass!”

“Don’t call me short!”

“You… are literally... a FUCKING _dwarf-_ OOF!”

Needless to say, a short Hunter punching a Titan in the gut and knocking the wind out of him hadn’t been expected today, but that was okay. The pair hurried their pace, the unmistakable recognition in some of their faces promising gossip. Let them gossip, then. It ought to entertain someone.

Okay, Bolts couldn’t lie. She herself was guilty of enjoying gossip whenever it was heard. She spared her Ghost a glare and hissed out, “Really?”

“Someone had to hurry you up,” Dassy defended.

Sundance pipped in her piece. “It was better than what I wanted to do.”

“And that would be?” Cayde asked. Bolts couldn’t help the humor in his voice spreading to her, lowering her helm to hide the little grin.  
“Two words: Piss-Donkey.”

What. At the equal silence of the Warlock and Ghost before them, Cayde slowly raised a finger. “I… don’t think they’d get the reference.”

“Exactly,” Sundance hmphed. “That’s what makes it funny.”

“Yeah, no, I’m not listening that again,” Cayde shuddered.

Huh? At her stare, Cayde groaned. “See, ‘bout round the time my sparrow went out of commission in the Red War, I kinda… picked the wrong donkey. Out of a whole group of them, I picked the wrong one. Don’t get me wrong, it still ran pretty fast. It just... had... an issue.”

“And I saved the clip,” Sundance proudly stated. The silent stares got her almost sounding defensive, voice rising a pitch. “What? It was funny! If you heard the cussing and that donkey’s weird breathing screeches enough to want something to mock the damn thing, you’d find it funny too!”

More weird than funny, but Bolts supposed Sundance was right at least in some sense. Finding humor in a situation that otherwise got under the skin like an irritating itch was usually the best option. Rivet drilled it into her when they were still young, and it’d undoubtedly been invaluable advice. Bolts gave a shrug, shoving the thought of a whining donkey with a weak bladder to the side and stepping out of the lift she couldn’t even remember stepping in. “To each their own.”

Sundance spun her shell, snapping it suddenly to her core and pointedly staring at Cayde accusingly. “See? She gets it- oh hey, the TWESH!”

“Might not wanna call it that when we go in,” Bolts warned.

Even with the high ceiling, the entrance was grand enough to be eye catching. The impressiveness did not come with the architectural design, but rather in how it practically radiated sophistication and silence just by looking at it. The lack of cracks offered no peek inside, and the lack of knob would deter most unwelcome visitors.

Normally, entrance would be impossible aside from the tight turns of vents, but Cayde had a companion that always carried extra robes for when the occasion or temperature demanded it. The inside was even more impressive than what the outside would ever suggest, but the chilly air would not draw questioning stares to warm, full body attire. “In fact, you might not wanna talk at all in there.”

A simulated, fake, long sigh came from Sundance. “Hey, all I’m gonna say is if someone’s lonely enough to be willing to stick their nose in a volume on the history of seeds for twenty hours straight then they deserve a laugh.”

The reference to the novel Bolts had taken to reading some years before prickled an almost nostalgic vibe in her chassis. While she hadn’t been that dedicated to the novel, reading it in short bursts when she could, the book had been all Sundance had seen her put down for a month. A relatively calm month long to be seen again where Cayde came to visit her apartment often, so more than enough time for Sundance to take notice. That month had also been host of many notable Twister games before they’d shredded the game pad and its faint coloration. It’d been an ‘ironic’ seeing off for the two colors that’d faded so much that the blue and yellow were indiscernible. Okay, that hadn’t been the only reason. The pad had also ripped from age after some games of locked and unsteady metallic limbs that lead to the two of them falling and dragging both ends in separate directions with the straightening of legs, but it was funnier claiming the aforementioned lack of colors to be the true culprit.

Inside of the study hall wasn’t the only ‘sacred’ grounds. While not forbidden to walk outside of the door’s boundaries, Warlocks that came to visit would wear their best and cleanest attire - or at least, just kept clean for the ones that didn’t find it necessary to dress up. There wasn’t a dress code, it was just how the place was normally occupied. The walls were white and marble, the air cool and softly pleasing the body when warmth was applied, but not draining most out of their comfort zones. Dassy circled Cayde, pale light pressing at his body in intermittent intervals. “You ready to be my latest victim?”

“Uh, that depends,” Cayde warily eyed his body as the weight of his chest piece and clothes disappeared with Sundace’s transmat and replaced by long blue robes with white lining, heavy fur of the purest white thick and large hanging at the ends of the thick hood. Similar thick fur filled the ends of his sleeves and lines started at the short slit at the feet that allowed freer movement. Slowly, he pulled the hood over his horn. He slowly shook his head solemnly, eliciting chuckles from all three at his dramatics. “Oh, my poor horn. My poor, glorious horn. To think nobody can see it in my moment of glory.”

Bolts rolled her optics as her own robes glittered and shifted from their usual moving blue interlocked triangles to a clean, awe inspiring white. It took some movement on her part, but the sparkles under the light only added to the great robes with their golden lining. A silver belt shone bright under the long rectangular ceiling lights. Unlike the all-thick nature of Cayde’s, her robes were thin and comfort based, more for style and showing off wealth. She wouldn’t need to hide her face - at most, if the worst came to fruition, the only consequences would be the obscene use of the arc slab. While there was another like it, Guardians making marks and indentations over each other’s work was so common that it was practically expected. Only fine art made up the slab in the TWESH. “It’ll be fine.”

The staring was less than subtle, trailing up her form. He suddenly met eyes with her. “You still have that?”

“‘course I do,” Bolts quipped. “I’m wearing it aren’t I? Why would I get rid of something you bought for me?”

A few more seconds of silence. Then, “You really are a snooty Warlock! I should’ve known!”

Bolts rolled her optics, but the smile was still there. “Ready?”

“Since when am I not?”

She didn’t miss how he quickly felt through his horn to ensure it was covered when she turned. He wasn’t the only Exo with a horn like that, but blue faced, horned Exo impersonating a Warlock just to get access to an otherwise restricted area weren’t exactly common. That, and he had to be the most recognizable Exo to live right now. Even Saint-XIV was recognizable only by his armor when he’d been alive. Aryeh had been crushed at the extraordinary Titan’s disappearance and declared demise. He’d expected it once it became widespread knowledge of how the legend had went on a rampage through the Infinite Forest in search of Osiris, but the official declaration really hit his morale for some months. After a week it had been subtle enough for Rivet, Bolts, and his Ghost Motu to notice, but it had been a truly depressing experience.

Light danced along her arms and form, taking visual form through the silky white that covered her servos. A display of light admittedly flared for Cayde’s viewing danced reminiscent of Awoken tattoos and birthmarks amongst her fingers. Pinching at the door, hands in a vertical line and separated from one another, she shut her optics, searching for the energy making up the door.

There.

A thin white line piercing straight down like a perfect crack snapped into existence, and Bolts freed her fingers from the pinch they’d taken, throwing her arms open wide and opening the largely oval tear. The Light danced like white flames at the ends, a clear space peering into a finely made library acting as the gateway through.

Bolts brought her foot over the bottom edge and stepped in, heeled boots lightly clicking from the angle at which she stepped her boot. Cayde smoothly stepped through, angling his head down to keep his face from being seen. Cold travelled downward, not up, so it was a behavior perfectly excused. Bolts brought her other foot through, waving her knuckles across the door, taking with them the open status to the library-study hall.

Immediately, the serene silence felt illegal to disturb. A promised, ever changing land it felt to be, wide and and long yet only a room. Aside from the truly temperature sensitive or those who sought the pleasure of additional warmth, the conditioning did little to affect the senses in comparison to the general air and personality of the room itself. While not sentient, nor even mechanical, the impression was simply… alive. Made greatly with integrity and love, the TWESH was a perfect place for study.

Perfect, at least, for those that didn’t mind the occasional mishap from mischievous Warlocks and their friends. This wasn’t the first time something like this would’ve been done, but by the Traveler did it ‘rightly anger’ the more snobbish regulars.

Let no one say otherwise that, at least regarding sophistication and knowledge, Warlocks were sensitive. Bolts even had a twinge of ‘this is wrong’, and she shared nothing related with the scholars with their conceited glares.

All jokes from both sides aside, chances are most of the Warlocks that get so pissy simply get irritable when a good opportunity for reading in their rare free time becomes disturbed. If not that, even the broken promise for a calm and persistent environment to relax in was more than enough to frustrate even the calmest of- well, anyone really. Rivet’s given her the stink eye for bugging her before. With that thought, the feeling of ‘this is wrong’ grew, but screw it. They’re already this far, they might as well continue.

Blue hue giving her away before she even went past Bolts’ peripheral vision, Dassy went ahead, not even bothering to attempt peeking over the bookshelves as tall as the ceiling. “I’ll look for the slab with Sundance,” Dassy whispered. Even listening to her talk felt bad to do. Maybe she was just a snobby Warlock. “Don’t lose him.”

“Yeah,” Sundance playfully emphasized. “Don’t lose him. If I have to search for another Chosen I’ll cut you.”

Both dematerialized, leaving the two not necessarily alone, but still the only two in each other’s sight.

The quiet grew on them with a fine elastic rope, equally as enticing, at least to Bolts, as the curious want to understand the inner workings of the TWESH. To find a comparison would mean that the library in all its glory resembled something quietly, unspeakably Awoken, dangled right before them and asking, still and smooth, to be noticed without asking to be noticed all the same. A clearly human quality, no matter the elegance… but inspired. Bolts slowly leaned her head against Cayde’s now padded shoulder, bunching up the forearm of a thick sleeve in her palm, gently pressing her body to his side in a sort of hug. Fond optics meeting with his own, she separated when she felt the need for such affections pass, nuzzling the neck of his hood briefly and disappearing amongst the bookshelves as her own way to go, inviting him to get his own proper eyeful of the place without her weighing him down. Besides, she might find the right way at the other end.

A silent exchange for a silent place.

Pressing into the spines of preserved literature, some worn, some loose, some relatively new, her tips rose and fell with each curve they romanticized with their passing by. Want, there was want, and she was alone again with her thoughts, but she had to pay attention because of what they were doing. Yet… she was by herself right now. So who’s to say she couldn’t…

Bolts giggled a little bit, gently removing a coverless novel from its squeezed place in between many others. “I’m such a nerd…”

Four thin yellow lines crossed the border separating spine and body, acting as the only filler in an otherwise blank design. Oddly enough, the front lacked any form of a title. Turning it to its side, the spine was blank as she rechecked it. A book lacking a title. Gently opening to the first page, there was a subtle frown at the blank nature within. Turning a few pages, Bolts finally found what she was looking for.  
Hiragana, absolutely mind muddling without the proper context of the previous pages, filled the faintly yellow pages, preserved in an oddly crisp way that kept it from falling apart but allowed the holder to feel the age in the movements of the body in every sense of the word. The symbols were old, really old, almost nonexistent old. Familiar, Bolts shut the book and turned it around, bound to peak into the story right to left this time. A title in bright scarlet revealed itself to have simply been on the other side from where she’d started. Honorless. Ha, Aryeh would probably avoid it from the title, but she’ll read some to see if he’d like her to read it to him - wait, no, she can’t take any books. Only the most trusted regulars could do that.

Bolts wished Dassy was still at her shoulder. Aryeh would’ve liked her reading to him… He enjoyed deep feeling novels. In truth, the Titan stereotype of being a meat head didn’t apply to him. Simply speaking to the tall man of unwavering virtue and love let a glimpse into how his mind worked, and it’d throw off even the most expecting of persons speaking to him. It was a deep fall into something more smart, complex and well thought than to be expected from even the oldest of Titans with their short fuses and selective, limited manner of thinking. PTSD was bound to affect everyone of those times, but the Titans were most obviously moved given their high numbers in the City in comparison to the Hunters.

His quiet nature hadn’t been the only thing Rivet had fallen for long ago. Nothing could ever shift the notion that Aryeh was a good man, impressive in more ways than one - and that wasn’t considering his gear.

Shifting the pages with relative quickness, Bolts slowed after some minutes to take in the personality of the writing. Not just the fancy curves reminiscent of kanji either, but the personality of the pen. It spoke lovingly, the filling passion and knowing in every page forcing her back to page one to appreciate a good book before she even got halfway. However long she’d been there, Bolts didn’t notice. The only thing to rouse her passed in a glowing blue.

Realization crashing down, Bolts slammed the book shut, shoving it back where it came from. Where was Dassy and- “Cayde!-“

Coming face to face with an Awoken woman in a blue jacket, both stared still and wide eyed, the shock shared regarding one another for entirely different things. Deep plum slowly filled out the pink woman’s face, laughter rose from her throat as the cyan lights danced erratically at the edges of her eyes and down her cheeks. Bolts hadn’t expected this. Sheesh… this was part of the issue that was steadily growing with her. And now, she was being laughed at by an Awoken woman and her Ghost for having the strange reflex to squeak ‘Cayde’ out of surprise. Maybe the woman wasn’t laughing at Bolts, but simply the unexpected experience. The blush of her face definitely suggested it. Offering a lowered helm in apology, Bolts made her way out of the surrounding bookshelves.

Now, Bolts wasn’t dense by any means, but the walking space between shelves seemed quite unfamiliar. She couldn’t argue that she had just walked through given her loss of focus. Would they have found the slab? What if they’d added to it and left her?  
Paranoia, paranoia, it will be your ruin, she told herself. Shush.

Stepping out of the maze of living shelves - or at least, what felt like such - Bolts was vaguely aware of a small collection of Warlocks bunched up together, silent in a different way than what was expected for a library as they stepped out of the library, the tear snapping shut more abruptly rushed than anything. What came across as more attention grabbing however stomped by, one stopping right beside her and grabbing her arm. Bolts just about popped the Redjack with her Light before realizing that a Redjack is in the TWESH. Its singular optic was red, but the color wasn’t what put her off. It was that it was grabbing her. “What-“

“Please remain within The Warlock Exclusive Study Hall until further notice. You will be informed when you can leave,” it simply said. Twisting her neck to view the door, the tear had been once again reopened by the Awoken she’d just left. She looked suddenly more firm, leading to the hypothesis that the previously leaving group had been her friends. The group was unsettled, shifting all disturbed and irritable-like under the helmet covered gaze of a Redjack.

“What happened?” Bolts breathed.

The Redjack simply repeated itself, releasing its hold on her arm and walking off to rejoin the symmetrical square of four it’d broken off from. Guardians were slowly shuffling themselves out from the shelves to get a look at the disturbance, and some looked completely baffled. What would Redjacks be needed for here of all places?

“Dassy,” Bolts slowly gasped. Dassy would know.

Murder, theft, assault, threats, kidnap, infiltration, an exiled Guardian being caught within the Tower, all of these were possibilities. Redjacks normally oversaw the boundaries of the Crucible, but were sometimes lent out by Lord Shaxx for matters regarding Guardians that needed eyes or reliable guards. A form of security themselves, they could act as a sort of police when needed.

But why? Why were they needed? What happened?

The small group of Warlocks were shepard back into the TWESH, and the way they were so close to each other, one holding the other’s arm with the other two bumping into their friends….

With a jolt, Bolts was reminded of… of… the time…. the time she’d been in hiding, squashed beneath the metal ruins of an old car clutching Dassy in hopes to hide her after the visit-gone-wrong, a quad of Lightless Guardians kicked or slammed onto hurting, bleeding, broken knees. One by one, the Fireteam that’d wandered not all that far with her own were killed. And the scream of anguish unable to be kept in from the last to go, no doubt the one that’d caused the most trouble, torment, haunted, ruined by the slaughter of his friends, splattered with brain matter and soaked in blood and- and- by the Light- and-

“Bolts?”

Shaking in Rivet’s hold, shaking in Rivet’s hold, shaking in Rivet’s hold scared, Lightless, unable to shake off the massacre, she’s in the Dark Age again, she’s young again, she’s alone, she’s-

It processed that she was being spoken to, her helm snapping to Dassy. “Bolts,” Bolts copied. Like she’d been wanting Dassy to elaborate. Suddenly realizing Dassy was speaking to her, not about her, she quickly shook her head. “Bolts- yes, Bolts, that’s me, yes? Yes, what do you want? What do you want?”

How had she gotten so off track from looking for the arc slab, one of stone unlike the wooden one? How had she gotten so distracted? Why was the problem with no name raising its head? Even processing what she was doing, she’d only realized the full ridiculousness of the situation now, and she felt utterly foolish and ridiculous and dumb and- helpless- in Rivet’s arms, in Rivet’s arms, safe with Aryeh, in Rivet’s arms-

Dassy gently pressed herself to Bolt’s forehead in the same manner Rivet would. A whimper left the Exo, and the Ghost spoke softly. “Cayde’s at the slab… you wanna see him before we all get round up?”

Rounded up in groups and shot. Rounded up in groups and brutalized. Rounded up. “I don’t wanna die,” Bolts choked. She felt horribly small, small, small. Small small small, easy to grab by the legs again, easy to be nearly crushed before Aryeh would pry open the Cabal’s fist with the sheer force of his will and pop the legionary in the face with its own gun. Squish, crunch. Rounded up, squished, crunched. Her modulated voice was small and meak in how it squeaked. “I don’t wanna be rounded up, Dassy, they’ll kill me.”

“It’s just the Redjacks,” Dassy whispered, “it’s just the Redjacks.”

An image of the Redjacks being grouped up and torn apart for their scrap metal disturbed her, their weapons yanked from their hold as they attempted in their last stand to defend the Guardians and civilians trapped in the City like cattle.

Paranoia. Expect everything, and you won't be surprised. If you’re not taken by surprise, you’re far less likely to end up like this.

What had happened here, exactly? With false and real images fighting to make themselves her dominant focus, her problem proved useful in the refusal to keep her mind solely on monsters that thought themselves superior. It was otherwise just as troublesome as before, providing forced bias toward everything that popped up.

She couldn’t focus for eleven hours, went to the bar on her way to the TWESH. Got equally trapped in her thoughts and absence of correct execution through decision. Cayde showed up, wanted to spend time with her, and she ruined it just as she knew she would by doing something unwanted - by doing something unrelated to the original goal, even when reminders of how she was supposed to be adding to the arc slab, and then she embarrassed herself but refused to admit it, and then she did it even further even though a Redjack wouldn’t care for her lack of attention forcing it to notice and get her attention, and- and now- Red War. But that was a few years ago. A FEW. But it was still in the past. But why is it active right now?

It’s not right now, Bolts just is.

Why is it such a mess?

She thinks on how expecting everything is better, then she can’t. She subconsciously focuses on something, and then suddenly she can't focus on one thing at all. It was her problem. It needed to go, she needs to focus- no, wrong word, what’s the word?  
It’s just the Redjacks. The image of them being used in a defiling context of the word counteracted with the cold, harshly simply present, where they stood at attention and unrivaled by waves of Cabal, replacing each fallen legionary with three more. Like how the Ahamkara, the Wish Dragon, had taken the form of a Hydra when faced with the learning of its dwindling race, and made up for being outnumbered by literal Gods by creating its own numbers and had taken weeks to slay.

Ahamkara were a dangerous race, feeding off of the wishes and desire of the very people Guardians were meant to protect and draining the Risen who sought their goals in greedy risks that left them drained and forever changed.

Bolts hadn’t noticed the different train of thought, but it helped. The less negative influence on her scattered mind made things easier to process.

Reality mercifully came back, and Bolts found relief in the group having long passed her. Remembering the closely clutching pair threatened the reminder of the Red War again, but its influence weighed itself back down before she had to address it.  
Bolts hadn’t always been like this. The problem was born some weeks ago, and it now had its own distinguished identity as an influence to her. Oddly enough, she knew what caused it, she knew when it happened, she knew where, but this sense of knowing was blocked out and it was causing issues. It was like imagining a new color. You knew what it was, yet you could never imagine it. It would never come to fruition, but you had a knowing for what’d it be. It was as if it were redacted information, on the paper but seen only by a certain part of her, and it was irritating.

Wrong word. Debilitating. Paranoia, in the sense that there was none, and it ruined her. Even when it didn’t affect anything around her, it was paranoia’s fault. The accusatory nature of these thoughts didn’t go unnoticed, but she couldn’t change them. It felt as natural as the problem. And she kept noticing it, kept blaming it, acknowledging what it’s doing, and it forced itself into her focus after just about anything. No, not focus. If she was focused then it wouldn’t keep popping in and out. In and out, in and out, on and on and on and on.

The problem was here, now. The problem has always been here, but the problem is equal in similarity to- this made no sense. Just like yesterday, she’s speaking- no, thinking nonsense. Nonsense. It had a meaning, a purpose, but it was entirely wrong and it needed to stop. It needed to stop. Dassy knew something was wrong, but Dassy could never feel it, too. Even if they were spending intimate time with each other.

That sounded wrong.

… She’s struggling with a brash mental change, and she was making immature jokes? Wait- no, encourage, don’t criticize. That’s what the problem wants. Criticize the problem, come back to reality.

Bolts forced everything in front of her to be what she needed to pay attention to. A sort of mediation different from meditation itself, it’d been so long since she resorted to the nameless act, but a final struggle lifted. Maybe it was Light that allowed it, maybe she was simply good at it, but everything wrong was righted. Bolts was no fool, it wouldn’t last forever, but at least she had ‘normality.’

Besides, the TWESH was no place for something like this. Not her internal struggles, not the Redjacks being called in for whatever reason.

The step she took was, in that moment, one of the best she ever had. Not ever had, but the relief was amazing in that moment. Describing it that way undoubtedly would sound odd if voiced aloud, but it was true and that’s what mattered in her new search for Cayde. Given the lack of continued unsureness, Dassy seemed to notice the new air in which Bolts carried herself.

All is good.

While Bolts had been idling and visibly unnerved, a lot of the Warlocks in the TWESH had been gathered and creating quiet murmurs that would otherwise be rejected from the ‘offenders’ and create cause for being pulled aside for a stern warning from one of the yellow clad deans. The deans were just about the only ones aside from the Redjacks not amongst the groups of finely dressed, layered up suspected Guardians, instead speaking hissed words that carried a bite despite the uncertainty to what was said. No doubt regarding whatever had transpired in the TWESH. Jury Hold - yes, that was his name - looked pissed, the aged Awoken man’s yellow eyes shining fierce and wide to go with the stern grimace that dragged thin cobalt lips into a stretched scowl, elongating the already long, flat cheeks. His nostrils flared, reminding her of a bull snorting before it’d decide to charge. Jury Hold was one of the more serious Cryptarchs she’d ever personally met, and he wasn’t pleasant by any means, but he wasn’t rude or stuck up like Asher Mir. He wanted to teach, he wanted to learn. Nothing else. The other deans of the library-study mix also consisted of Awoken men, but there was a middle aged human Warlock amongst them in the identifying yellows meant to be worn by the deans. Were it not for the armband, Bolts wouldn’t have realized Ikora hadn’t simply chosen mortal Cryptarchs for the task of monitoring and assisting Warlocks in finding whatever they may be looking for, be it a room or even a scroll. That’s how Bolts had caught Jury’s name. Without speaking to the man, Jury often came across as self absorbed. He’d no doubt seem unbearable given the stress of whatever had happened, but he was the first dean Ikora appointed for the TWESH, and when one of three leaders personally gives you a job, you take it seriously, dammit.

Regardless, Bolts silently wished she hadn’t loitered around the bookshelves as tall as dragons, because now there was no way she’d be able to pass the dozen or so Guardians and Redjacks without notice. Jury’s piercing eyes bore into Bolts, and the sudden thankfulness that she didn’t have to see them angry at her specifically hit like a truck. Maybe the interruption to her obscene, harmless vandalism of the arc slab had been a good thing. “You! Come here! Don’t think I’ve forgotten you, Bolts-3, come here! Sit, sit!”

Oh, did she forget to mention his photographic memory? Damn Cryptarch remembered anything he as much as glanced at in perfect detail. That’s probably why he was the first picked for this job.

Without complaint - expressed, at least - Bolts plopped into one of the comfy chairs that’d been retrieved from the TWESH’s other spaces to supply the growing number of Guardians being summoned to the spot. Crossing her arms and setting one leg over the other, she set herself to tapping her heel and wondering where Cayde was.

Wait- Bolts snapped her head to Dassy, hushly rushing out, “Is Cayde alright?”

“Yeah,” Dassy whispered back, “I told you, he’s at the slab… or was, rather.”

“Where’s he at now?”

“I don’t know,” Dassy hissed, “maybe he’s in prison. How would I know? I just found you when the Redjacks got here. What were you doing, anyway?”

“Don’t get sassy with me, Dassy,” Bolts hissed back.

“You literally named me Sassy Dassy.”

Fuck. That was true.

Bolts took notice of the stare of a younger looking Warlock. Well, younger in the sense he appeared more new. His age was more so in his twenties. “What?”

He looked awkward, gesturing lightly to her. “What kind of name is Bolts-3?”

WELL- well. Ha. Ha! Not the first time she’d been asked that. Judging from the sudden snap of its gaze and the hurried murmurs, his poor Ghost was appalled that he’d ask that. Not offended, just deeply embarrassed. The guy’s face went red and he looked away. Eh, she could understand. “It’s pretty funny, actually. I didn’t have any ideas when I was rezzed, so I just figured, ‘I’m metal, I’m surrounded by metal - oh look, a bolt. I’m just like that bolt. My name is Bolts.’”

Dassy seemed to take pity on the newer one, too. “At least her name had been thought to it. I got told not to be Sassy and… then we learned she liked to rhyme when fresh out of the grave, apparently.”

Given his red face and continued averted gaze, it didn’t help. Eh, it was a learning experience. He’ll be fine.

“Warlocks.”

Stern and commanding, a voice belonging to none other than Ikora Rey had all heads or bodies turning or spinning ‘round to view the Warlock Vanguard. The collective sense of oh fuck unsettling everyone became immediately obvious to everyone in the room, with all but the newer Guardians understanding in full as to why. Standing tall and clearly unhappy, the naturally restrained nature of such a wise and powerful woman, once Osiris’ pupil and long since established in her own right, created major unease. Whatever had happened had been serious. Serious enough to summon Ikora, who was undoubtedly going to make someone regret their decisions in the TWESH. The previous murmurs went dead quiet, and Bolts noted the younger Guardian’s Ghost inching close to him.

As the tense air became the norm, Ikora slowly clasped one palm over the other, searching eyes slowly carrying over each and every individual and their gear. Testing resolves to hide, but hide what? A sort of ‘hmph’ carried from Ikora. The sense of power in the air was met with no challenge, and the look in her eyes suggested she knew she’d been disrespected by someone. Otherwise, her face and strong voice revealed nothing. “I will not insult your intelligence and pretend it isn’t obvious you’ve all been summoned for a reason. Each and every one of you are to have you and your belongings subjected to a search. Unless… someone wants to come clean?”

I wonder what was stolen. Whoever did it better take the easy way out and fess up, or there’ll be hell.

Ikora’s gaze passed over the many Guardians, suddenly aiming for something else. Bolts twisted in her seat, following the Vanguard’s gaze along with everyone else. The Redjacks brought forth a sheepish Cayde, and Ikora’s brows raised. Someone demanded why Cayde-6 was in here, but they were so quiet Bolts had barely noticed it herself.

He slightly raised his hand from its place at his sides in a sort of wave, fingers moving rapid for a few seconds. “Hi, Ikora,” he quietly greeted.

“Cayde,” Ikora returned.

The Hunter Vanguard glanced around, and the seriousness of the situation had no doubt dawned on him before he’d even been brought forward. “So. Someone stole from the great Ikora Rey. Ouch.”

“It would appear so.”

“You’re not mad at me, right?”

The tiny rise to her lips went unnoticed by all but Cayde. “Given the circumstances, I think I have something else in need of my attention.”

T’sking all disappointed like, Cayde shook his finger at the Warlocks gathered. “Doing things you aren’t supposed to. And I thought we were in a new Golden Age!”

Sparing another glance to the Redjacks, Bolts noted with a twinge of amusement Cayde had definitely tried to hide and got caught due to the glowing robes. That was Bolts’ guess. At the look he sent her, it seemed they both knew he’d be preoccupied by quite in the days to come. He brought his hands together. “Riiiight… well, since you’re so busy now, let me lighten the load.” Cayde gestured to Bolts. “I can vouch for her.”

After a long look of consideration onto Bolts, a spark of recognition almost went unnoticed in the woman’s critically steady eyes. Ikora must recognize her to some extent. Bolts wondered what from. “She’ll still need to be searched.”

“Well… don’t say I didn’t try to tell you,” Cayde shrugged. Even now, he invited humor into the environment.

Next thing she knew, Bolts was first selected for the search, and Ikora’s Ghost somehow conveyed the lack of contraband within Dassy’s storage without even speaking. Bolts wasn’t quite sure how he even checked in the first place, theorizing on what in the TWESH could’ve been taken if he was going off energy waves or something she’d yet to consider, but she ended up being let go pretty quickly.  
Awwww. Bolts could practically hear the silent tease from Dassy as envied eyes fell on the white robed Exo. She gave a tiny little wave to Ikora.

“My Fireteam is gonna be wondering where I am….”

“Mine, too.”

“Wait, you guys have Fireteams?”

“You don’t?”

“What’s a Fireteam?”

Ikora slowly shut her lids, no doubt influenced from the sudden burst of conversation. Cayde waved a bye to Bolts as she passed the Redjacks that parted from their mini blockade of the tear, still wondering just what’d been stolen.

——————————————————————————-

Rivet and Aryeh shared a space of their own, but that didn’t mean Bolts wasn’t welcome. Rivet herself rarely settled into it, though, and half the time Aryeh was just about the only occupant. The poor man was more than a little lonely, and if it weren’t for that then Bolts doubted Rivet would even spend time there at all. Many of the older Guardians had homes directly in the Tower, like Bolts, but Rivet had disliked inhabiting such a full place as a way to get R&R and Aryeh was more than happy to be further down on the same level as most of the inhabitants of the City. He felt it to be more homely, like an embrace beneath the Traveler that made him even more enthusiastic to serve after its awakening in the Red War. Still, the place was a bit away from the streets and the majority of activity. Her sister was bothered by all the people. Just a little nervous, but for the most part it was just what most would call a Hunter thing. Given her older status, Rivet had secured the place easily as her own, and Aryeh had spared no complaint, happy to have a nice home with his love no matter where it’d be. Another reason for some of Rivet’s disliking for staying in the house, or any for that matter, is the open space. In the Dark Age they’d all be close together wherever they chose to hide and sleep, sometimes semi-comfortable and sometimes cramped, always concealed with what was needed only. Bolts still remembered the first time she got to use a pillow, got to sleep without the old, worn robes. She’d been awed. Rivet had been jarred and disturbed, even if she liked it to some extent, too. The house, however, was very wide and open, but not huge. The living room and kitchen had nothing to separate them, long windows supplying plenty of light. Behind the couch some feet, stairs lead up to what made the upstairs, exercise equipment and some bookshelves joined with an old crate still holding weapons Aryeh had wanted to rework but still hasn’t got to, lacking the valuables they simply stored on their Ghosts. On its top, an award from the Crucible when it’d been at its meanest stood with polished golden pride, touched by none other than Aryeh. The bathroom was a large square, acting as one of two walls hiding his shared bedroom and meeting up with the ceiling. That’d been a mandatory addition. A room closed off was better than one that left little to hide. Aryeh didn’t quite like whatever added her aversion to the double height living room, and was more than willing to make adjustments for Rivet’s comfort, just as he didn’t mind the placement of the home itself.

A half wall hid the body when first entering the house, and Bolts heard the unmistakable sound of boots suddenly slamming themselves onto the floor as she made her way up the steps. The harsh, fiery glare and tense clenched fists immediately relaxed as his expression faded to his softly kind nature, and Motu reappeared at his shoulder. Aryeh never took kindly to the thought of intruders ruining a safe haven, but Bolts had seen him ready to kill and maim enough to know that it’d never be turned onto her, even on accident. His gentle smile and relaxed posture joined at the same time as he cooled off from his readiness to hurt, and his lips turned up a little extra as Bolts hugged his waste. “Hey, big guy. Rivet been home?”

His head slowly lowered in quiet disappointment. “No,” Aryeh murmured. His voice was deep, lacking much gravel as it rumbled in his chest. His large arms would always give comfort, no matter how much she was reminded that all he had to do was squeeze and he’d crush her.

“It’s just been us for three weeks,” Motu said. He and Dassy shared a look, and some clicks of greeting were shared as Aryeh pulled his arms from her and slowly sat back into his place on the cushioned couch, retrieving the novel of a story from many years before.

The absence wasn’t surprising. It’d been expected in more ways than one, and that was good. She should be back within the week, though. Rivet never went off on her own for more than a month. This had been especially true in the Dark Age, where Bolts had only Aryeh for warmth and a sense of companionship aside from Dassy and Motu for only a few days at most, where Rivet would return with deer or canned foods that she didn’t dare ask where it’d been stolen from. Or rather, from who. Bolts had learned botany, and while she no longer took to the practice in the same measures as before given the lack of need for a false sense of fullness, she still had some plants in her apartment.

Remembering her old practice of botany had her looking to the pink flowers and their pale ends. While she wasn’t surprised he kept them alive, Bolts still nudged her elbow into his side to direct his attention toward them to tease him in an ironic way. After all, he’s always been decent at caring for flowers and fruits. “I’m surprised you didn’t kill the foxglove.”

“I like it,” Aryeh said simply, returning to his novel. “Rivet likes it, too.”

Bolts reached up and ruffled the hair on his head to regain his attention, a slightly fluffy rectangle in the middle with shaved sides. It fit well with his square jaw and pretty much all other aspects. While he wouldn’t be all that happy with someone else besides Rivet or her touching him like this given it’d be an invasion of his personal space, Bolts was one of two others in his Fireteam for a reason, drawing a pleasant close of his eyes and little playful shake of his head adding to the ruffling.

He wasn’t one to get angry at others, but Traveler have mercy when he does. It’d be for a good reason, and when Aryeh had reason, a drive, he was a terrifying force of nature, moving even the oldest to defeat. That didn’t mean he never lost a fight, but still. Again, Aryeh is a very respectable and respectful man even to those who had just met him. Brute force wasn’t needed to diffuse any disrespect or mistreatment of his loved ones. His presence alone prevented it.

Given how she hadn’t been noticing how she’d think, it was all quite pleasant.

And now, contrary of what she’d accomplished for the past hour or so, that was ruined because she noticed her lack of notice. The problem ruined everything. Eh, as long as it wasn’t going strong she didn’t care too much.

They sat in silence, enjoying each other’s company as he went back to reading. Recalling the novel she thought he’d like, Bolts told Dassy to search the network on old stories from Japan to see if any matched the one she’d looked at. When nothing came up, Bolts silently thanked her lack of successful slab-disrespect. Nothing serious, but still anger rousing.

What’s with her and constantly degrading her own class with jokes like these? Mmm… prolly because the jokes are true. Source, trust me bro.

“That’s a good book.”

Interested, Bolts leaned over to peer at the pages. Unbroken, an old story of a soldier in what was known as World War II some years before the Traveler had arrived. Aryeh loved the story and kept it with him as much as he could, preserved by Motu when not in Aryeh’s direct usage. He wouldn’t even lend it to Bolts for fear of his favorite story and piece of history being robbed from him. After all, if he liked it so much, Aryeh had once argued, then Bolts might possibly keep it for herself if she liked it, too. It was a little silly, but hey, everyone had their quirks. After taking in the scene of the three lost at sea men ripping open a shark out of frustration for their attacks, Bolts slowly nodded. “You’ve told me.”

“Honorless,” Aryeh corrected. “The book Dassy couldn’t find. It’s a nice read. A little difficult, but once I started I found the translating easier. I never finished it.”

It must drag on him if he liked it enough to remember. “Why not?”

A little frown drew his lips for a few moments. “Warlord.”

So it got destroyed before Aryeh could get Motu to transmat it. Aryeh doesn’t fight with his books unsafe, meaning he’d gotten jumped. It all sounded familiar. “The cold spring? With the Warlord that shot people in her territory?”

Aryeh nodded. That must’ve sucked. Oh wait, yeah, it did. Aryeh was so pissed his super ended up burning half a forest, and he’d been regretful for years over the Ghost he ended up having to smash when the Warlord refused to back down overnight. Come to think of it, that was probably why he was frowning. He could get over being disrespected, but the burst of blue Light had left the Fireteam and their Ghosts in collective silence. Back then, Aryeh had also been more of a hot head. Not in a major way, but he definitely had allowed himself to rage more easily and hatefully when it came down to it.

It still wasn’t as bad as the Red War. In the Dark Age, they still had their Light. In the Red War, even in the wilds, they were cattle.

Unhappy with how her thoughts already were trying to go off track, Bolts tried to establish a mental reminder to revisit and ask about Honorless. Even if she couldn’t take it, she could have Dassy take a look at it this time and remember every detail. At the least, Dassy would be able to tell it to Motu, who would relay it to Aryeh. Wiretix also enjoyed reading, the sweet thing. The only reason she doesn’t that much is because of her loyal following of her Chosen, always in the wilds, always this place or that. When Aryeh was near, however, usually meaning there was downtime or idle time in a ship in between planets, Aryeh would read to her or they’d both read it in silence, the pages lingering longer than normal just in case Wiretix needed to catch up. All three Ghosts had nice shells, each from their lovingly grateful Guardian. The models had pretty interesting names, like weapons or armor pieces. Motu had ‘The Right Choice’, a white shell with gold designs at the ends and around his core. Wiretix adorned the ‘Sanctified Vigilance’, a black shell with gold lining and patterns, three jewels above and below her core. Dassy had the one worded ‘Mythological’, and Bolts sometimes liked to joke how she was the one with the most love for her Ghost given the exotic nature of the fins and thin glowy tentacles that cost upward a few thousand glimmer. Dassy hadn’t demanded it, but it was so pretty that Bolts just had to have squandered her savings at the time just to show off her Sassy Dassy. Rivet enjoyed something simple, while Aryeh also took to something a bit fancy.

Ugh, she’s thinking about something unrelated again. Bolts scraped her digits against the back of her helm in a motion meant to scratch one’s scalp, creating a metal scratching sound for a couple seconds before she abruptly halted the practice. That weird little habit came with the problem too. Bolts would probably leave to meditate in complete solitude and silence if it weren’t for how she’d feel guilty leaving Aryeh already when she’d usually stay a few days at a time whenever she visited. Guess the upstairs would have to do in a bit.  
After some time simply in each other’s company, Bolts figured she might as well mention the incident in the TWESH. Normally, there’d be zero hesitation, but leaning forward with her crossed legs, Bolts chalked it up to the problem. “You have no idea how much your unfinished book kept me from getting into some serious shit.”

Aha, he was interested. Bolts acted out pinching and removing a book, exaggerating the motion of moving her head all confused like before ‘flipping it over’ and reading right to left. “So there I was with my fiancé - not, not really,” Bolts rolled her optics at Aryeh’s slight display of surprise, “though I wish he was - ready to annoy anyone stuck up residing in the TWESH. But alas! Pain! I got distracted somehow and found a delicious story! Oh, then the Redjacks came and Ikora had them round everyone up. Thought I was gonna get executed. Sheesh.”

Aryeh’s furrowed brow and slight frown drove Bolts to explain further. “Something got stolen. Don’t know what, but it’s probably gonna make public news soon. I wouldn’t be surprised if Ikora was actually mad.”

Motu seemed to have been reminded of something. “An Official Vanguard Announcement for the bust of Ra’Shedon went out a few hours ago.”

“Statue got stolen, mystery solved,” Dassy chipped in, spinning her glowing shell.

Bolts nodded a bit jokingly, but the frown on Aryeh’s face only grew. What’s with everyone and deep frowns today? He set his novel back down, tapping the corner of the table. It flashed green, and a screen lit up an inch above the wood as he searched up the incident. Immediately, the table screen was practically flooded with dozens of pictures peaking into the scene. Redjacks outside the TWESH, Redjacks inside, the deans with their unhappy-to-say-the-least faces, even one of Ikora mid shout leaning on the table at a Warlock clutching his Ghost to his chest. He must’ve refused a search if she actually got mad. And of course, articles questioning why Cayde-6 was wearing a fancy Warlock robe in the TWESH when even Zavala hadn’t stepped in as seen from previous pictures. Cayde looked unamused and serious. Zavala looked an inch away from being mad himself. Other images consisting of the bust of Ra’Shedon and questioning titles as to where it was or if anyone sees it on the black market to report it also swamped every space in between. The only unrelated one pictured the Tower and how the majority of it had been rebuilt, and it’d be some months before it, along with the Wall, would be completely fixed, but Bolts trusted it’d be fairly quick. If the collective effort of Guardians and construction workers managed to rebuild all the homes and living spaces in the Tower within barely a few months, they could get the Tower done within a few years at most. “Disrespectful.”

“Yeah,” Motu seemed to nod at that. “Look at Cayde-6. Even he’s taking it seriously.”

Cayde hadn’t looked so downright almost scarily calm since the Red War, or at times when he’d been mad. Was the bust so important that even he felt disrespected regarding its theft? That didn’t sound like Cayde. That didn’t sound like Cayde at all. There was a difference between how he was for Vanguard duty and actually stern, and this was it.

Was he worried? Was that it? It couldn’t be Zavala’s clear frustration or Ikora’s demanding and searching eyes lit up with anger dragging his spirit down, that wouldn’t really personally affect him that much.

New pictures and articles appeared by the second. Aryeh tapped off the table screen, and there was silence again.  
The bust of Ra’Shedon had been stolen, and even the Hunter Vanguard notorious for his more upbeat and boldly exuberant nature didn’t need to pretend to be more than annoyed.

With a mysterious air and majestic creation, the woman who’d immortalized such a strange Hive wizard had taken to the craft until the very last day of her life. Even the unfinished nicks meant to shape the jutting ribs beneath robes radiated a sense of power and sentience. A mastered craft, honed after a century and seventy years more of life by a woman with no name, haunted by the being that had ripped her family from this life and left her forehead jeweled with impossible to remove reflective diamond. With just one touch, the wizard that’d immortalize itself through memory alone would mark those it deemed unfit for slaughter, whatever that categorized a survivor as. While the source of the bust’s appearance itself had been far from respected, the craftsmanship, quality, and reminder of history so finely put through the process of physical form made it a valued, awed wooden statue. A statue, for many artists would argue that bust was too unrefined a word for such a great work with eyes that still felt moving. Soul sucking. Hateful. Ready to mark those unfit to kill just to hex them with a life of ruin. Another reason the bust was so famous - it’d been an impossible deed, and yet the sculptor’s zeal alone had bested a curse that refused her even a name beforehand.

Bolts personally thought it was a pretty creepy thing to steal, but to each their own. If the thief somehow managed to sell it without being turned in for a reward twice as big as the bust’s worth itself, it’d be more than enough Glimmer to retire for seventy years. That’s about as long as a human lifespan used to range!

They talked for hours, reminiscing of Rivet.

—————————————————————————————

Perfection. Everything was perfection, and that was a flaw. Without perfection, nothing is perfect. If nothing is perfect, nothing is good. It was a weird thought that’d debated in her head since she’d taken a look at the bust of Ra’Shedon. Pronounced Rah-Shay-den, Bolts guessed she shouldn’t be surprised that the problem would add to the many thoughts the bust would spawn in every viewer, no matter how many times it’d been observed, no matter how long. The bust was perfection, and without it, nothing could be perfect. But given it’d been perfection itself, didn’t that leave room for new perfection? Hive were perfection. The _problem_ loved to be agreed with regarding that. The Hive were perfection, absolution, great and terrible. Worthy, and they deserved it. The only monument of Hive that didn’t violate every means of their dignity in an insulting manner was the bust of Ra’Shedon. Specifically that bust, always that bust. Only that bust. It was a craft made through the hands of a mortal, from the hands of a God, unseen, unheard of, disappeared. The problem told her this, allowing her to learn, to know, while also having the matter-of-fact knowledge that Ra’Shedon had been slain long before the God Slayer himself had come to be. Eyeing the little bugs creeping up her metal body, Bolts concluded them as insulting to pair with the Hive. With Royalty. Royalty was to be served, and it was disgusting she thought so. It all came with the _problem_. Knowledge, certainty, belief, all of it not hers and acting as natural as her own thoughts. But they were her own thoughts, and that’s what made the problem so dangerous. That’s what wanted her to take her mind off of anything else but the Hive, scattering her thinking until it would recognize them as her only source of attention. Not for study, not for serving. To be. And it was intermingling, changing. Dancing with something else.

Thank the stars for her many years of experience, or like paranoia, it’d go unnoticed.

It all revolted her. These were her thoughts, her own will, and the insults went to herself. The insults, the degrading nature of every negative reaction to her own actions. But it was the _problem_ that caused it, and that was her only saving grace from thinking she’d gone mad. Eris Morn was not mad, and still everyone thought her so because of how she spoke so self taught, so deliciously knowledgeable. Only the recognition of truth and sanity in her words had saved her from being Exiled any further than her own self imposed one, meant to warn others, meant to educate. Delicious, because it was about the Hive, and no other knowledge or time should be invested in anything else. Except that wasn’t her thoughts, that wasn’t Bolts’ will, it wasn’t and Bolts knew it wasn’t.

She wondered how Rivet would think of her foolish lack of mention of this, but how would Bolts explain the _problem_? Rivet would know, Rivet would deduce, but the _problem_ clarified it’d never happen even when Bolts knew it would. Or could. It was a possibility.

Even simple thoughts spawned doubt. The _problem_ ensured that.

“What’s the song?” Rivet asked.

Bolts knew Rivet wasn’t there, but she was, in a way, even when the acknowledgement of her as an actual person and the knowledge that this Rivet, right here, was fake, clashed. “I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do.”

“I have forgotten.”

“No, you haven’t.”

“The song and name won’t come to me.”

Bolts continued to hum a simply familiar tune, slowly swaying side to side with her head. The orange flaring with every sound from her modulated voice served as a little illumination of her person, and Bolts came to notice her subconscious, specifically noted as ‘metallic’ limbs as ‘Rivet’ was no more. Yes, Bolts is made of metal. Hard not to be when one was a human mind implanted into the perfect war machine. Still, she’d only thought of it as a body before hand, not associating it as a separate metal one. Like her skin was still there. Her skin, no, the Earth’s skin, because her body was long gone even before Dassy had Chosen her.

When did she change clothes again? Before Aryeh, she concluded. Before visiting Aryeh. In shorts and a baggy tank top revealing a featureless metal torso when she leaned forward as she did now, their intended comfort had been lost to her attention grasped by other things. Once again, the scattered nature of her thoughts proved useful in paving the way out of the worst of them.  
Meditation proved futile when moved ‘purposefully’.

Bolts palmed the holographic band on her left arm, clicking tiny buttons on the sides. Semi solid material suddenly boosted her up, and she was lounging in pale pink neon a few feet off the side of the front yard tree and its thick roots. Emotes had always been popular, no matter how unnecessary many of the older Guardians found them to be. The coming of Eververse further increased the already widespread use of compressed data material. Rivet had a few she never used, and Bolts still wasn’t sure if Aryeh even expressed interest in one yet. Guardians weren’t the only ones to use them, but they usually had the most Glimmer from their travels and explorations, and many got paid anyway for their efforts in missions, so a broke Guardian was known as either a big spender or just not much of a trooper.

Even with its massive size, the Traveler didn’t block out the stars at the edges of the City. Whenever a chunk of its body passed over part of her view, it’d be some minutes but the stars were still there. She lifted an unmotivated hand, sticking the tip of her finger over the moon and its distant quarantine zones.

“Where did I go wrong, Dassy,” Bolts asked. The Ghost was spending time with Motu and Aryeh, leaving Bolts to her own. “What did I do?”

What triggered the _problem_?

The moon, the moon was the problem. The Hive. There was more to it, but nothing past those vague senses of recognition and knowing allowed for any form of exploration.

_**I miss the silence.** _

The emote ran out of charge, neglected for a month. Bolts hovered on her own, still sitting back. After a little while, she lifted her thumb over individual stars. ‘Ha! I’ve got you!’, a fun little thought. Over the moon, a sliver of white free from her childish slammed the statement back in equal volume regarding her.

Maybe… maybe there wasn’t a problem. Maybe she should talk to someone about PTSD. There was definitely some leftover from the Red War. A lot, actually. But she was fine, she didn’t need it. Yeah, she didn’t need it. It won’t change reality.

Her name is Bolts, and she is in control. There’s no denial of anything, and her thoughts were her own. Nothing else. Everything is fine.

Was, fine.

_‘Admitting you have a problem is the first sign of healing.’_

The speech of a knowledgeable person sometime after the Red War, maybe a few months. Guardians of all Classes had been summoned for the occasion, a wide space with microphones unable to contain the mourning Gods of love and loyalty. The ones that chose to arrive, at least. Many had been shaken and left the City out of fear. _The voice carried through many speakers, inviting Gods of Light and civilians in need to listen._

_‘The first step is most important. When you accept your projection of negativity, your problems won’t go away, and they won’t fix themselves, and the memories of what happened this year will forever be with you. But you can move on. We as a City, a Community can move on. We’re all affected differently by trauma, all see it differently, all know it differently. No two Titans share the same Helm, no matter how the miniscule the difference in design. No two adolescents will share the same manners. No two Guardians, no two peoples, will share the same outlook. But help is patient, and ready for you when you need it.’_

Bolts doesn’t need help. Was this the _problem_ ’s doing? Was this projection? No, she doesn’t need help. She’s fine. She knows her problems for what they are. Nothing was wrong, and she didn’t come to notice it suddenly, and she didn’t- didn’t find something to project anything on, she’s fine when she isn’t hurting which is normal, so she’s fine. She’s fine. Staring down into the grass and unmoving, the scars panged in her metallic chest. Something was wrong. Wronged than feeling wrong, that had to be, it was something and there was no excuse for the fakeness that was so true. No, not true, that’s the whole thing! It’s not true, so therefore the realness is fake. She’s just projecting - no, no. Embarrassment crept up. The only one hearing her backfiring argument was herself.

Not everything was fine, but that was okay so long as it didn’t affect her life. Even though she’d spoken to Dassy less, her loving Ghost, her fucking annoying Ghost, always harassing her with are you okays and noticing everything painfully true and real Bolts wanted to be lies, everything was fine.

Debating, debating, debating reality. There was nothing fake with how her blatant denial struck what she already accepted as truth. And she wanted to reject the acceptance, and it hurt, because being okay means she wouldn’t have to talk about it and could blame what definitely is the problem and not have delusions.

Something felt wrong again. Wrong, and it wasn’t just all this- fucking arguing.

The debate on the problem existing or being a projection had been a subconsciously present feeling, but noticed, it was an entirely different experience. Notice, notice, notice, expect, expect, expect. Maybe all this thinking was just paranoia. Maybe this was just her, completely capable of changing her thoughts around but feeling stuck to the point nothing was changing because it convinced her and it was just- just- everything is wrong. Everything is wrong. Bolts tried diverting her attention elsewhere, but the pressing repeat continued, continued, and FUCKING CONTINUED and it FUCKING SUCKED. It’s not projection, it’s real! It’s all- all really real!

It felt dirty, like a lie, like something petty, but a technical truth was technically true even if it was a lie, and Bolts reached out for that mentality. Reached out for how it was reality she was thinking these things, so therefore, it existing was true, and therefore it was true and nothing could change that and everything was okay and everything was fine and everything is okay-fine and everything is never nothing and therefore she’s fine because she’s normal, she’s a machine but she’s normal, and that was okay. That was okay because she needed it to be okay, but she searched for reasons anyway, to justify it and convince herself even though she knew it wouldn’t, so if she was asked about it she’d be able to convince someone of it because talking about any of it was scary.

_‘A thinking trap can be escaped,’ the person speaking continued. ‘All it takes is a willingness to escape it.’ ___

____

Bolts isn’t a fucking idiot, a fucking idiot would not know that and wouldn’t be smart enough to acknowledge it, even though she does that and equally rejects it despite knowing what it’d do like one. Yeah, she tried, and she’s willing, but she’s fine. She knows it’s there, she knows what it is, but she’s fine because it’s not there and by the Light this was frustrating, off putting, something’s throwing her off of something that had to be it she’s okay she’s okay she’s okay…..

__

Crying. It was a little annoying, but she lifted her head up to find the source, even reverting to her pedes - feet, just think of them as feet - to spin and find who was feeling bad. She wanted them to feel okay, and they were annoying, and by the Light the one crying was her, it was Bolts, that’s why it was annoying, that’s why she wanted to feel better, because she found herself annoying because she knew she was the cause for many things that _‘ARENT MY FAULT’_ and made her irritated and affected her view on things. Wandering the yard, Bolts was suddenly thankful for the quiet, where she could relax the tightly suffocating clashing in her mind and chest. Exo didn’t need air, but simulated breathing helped to prevent Resets, and her body was her own so of-fucking-course it’d do that. Orange flickered in intensity and strength, and she lifted her hand, tilting back her head and gently spinning with a tiny smile at the thought of stroking her fingers across large leaves. What if the leaves were flowers? Even better. Even better, big soft leaves and flowers, but flowers were softer so she imagined just them. Maybe she could grow some giant verbena, make their petals as thick and long as jungle grass while being as soft and pinchable as they would’ve been when small. Except she can’t, because there wasn’t any verbena variant that evolved that way, not by the Traveler nor time, and that was okay but even though they weren’t really there, they were calming and smelled sweet, and she should start carrying some in her pocket like she used to. Not for verbena flowers, but she used to bunch up a lot of nice smelling petals, and it made her pocket smell like that for a long time and it was so cool and- Bolts choked up, letting herself stumble with the drag of her spins. That was okay. Dumb, but okay.

__

The problem was just a projection, wasn’t it? No, no it was true. It was a projection and that was true. It just described a feeling. That was it. That gave her comfort. It was natural. Natural, she wasn’t a fool for letting it stay. The invisible guilt lifted off raising shoulders as she slowly made her way across the grass. Great, this was great, this is great. The _problem_ wasn’t great. It still had its own identity. She was okay, but she wasn’t, and that’s okay because she can get so one day.

__

That… sounded absolutely silly, actually. If I’m already fine, why would I need to BE fine?

__

She is. She’s not.

__

It’s fine.

__

“I want Aryeh,” Bolts suddenly blurted out. She stopped, facing the window. Dassy looked away, but Motu stared freely. Observing, rather than a childish wondering. Bolts shook out a rattled breath as she made her way to the door. “I want Aryeh,” she repeated. That sounded like a good idea.

__

Hurrying up the steps, Aryeh moved natural and easy as she hopped onto the couch and snuggled into his side of safety and warmth and assurance. It didn’t need to be intended, nothing from him had to be, for her to get that sense of safety and warmth. She felt like a child, but in his gentle hold and under softly worried eyes, that was okay because it was good here. The nerves rattled off, still there but lifting ever still slight. It didn’t take tears to cry for Exo, but it was still obvious.

__

The night was silent as she fell asleep embraced in safe radiant warmth and company, and Bolts distantly thought of how nice it’d be to feel Rivet’s embrace comforting her along with Aryeh’s.

__

—————————————————————————————-

__

_**Chapter One - Aryeh Lev** _

__

Staying awake hadn’t been needed, but his habit of keeping watch when needed never broke in all his years. The possibility of an unwelcome guest disturbing the gently grasped calm that eased the woman seeking comfort from him was more than unlikely, but it was better safe than sorry, no matter where they were. Aryeh would prefer Bolts waking to the feeling of protection if that was what she needed. He didn’t mind. She was always the more sensitive one, and as his teammate, his family, he had a duty to be there in their times of need, no matter the time of day.

__

He liked helping. His Ghost understood and so did hers, so the night was spent in still silence.

__

It was the wee hours of morning when the door clicked, and Aryeh was ready to get angry until the familiar smooth quickness of his love came into few, Wiretix at her shoulder. The scowl on his face returned to his usual calm, and he offered a full smile as her helmet was removed, welcoming the metal face with the diagonal yellow paint stroke that he loved with all his Light. He received one in return, in her own way. A small little smile that would’ve turned up at the ends if she had lips. It was gone just as quickly as it appeared, but that’s just how she was.

__

Rivet sat directly across from them, sparing the briefest of glances to the window before her focus trained on her twin. Their models were similar in just about every way, so it wasn’t wrong to call them that. Aryeh’s silent joy crinkled at the eyes in a more sad way, no words needing to be exchanged as to why. Rivet looked to him, the lingering question she’d ask every so often in rare messages during her patrols of the wilds being answered with a shake of his head. Bolts hadn’t spoken to him about ‘it.’ Her yellow optics immediately flicked back to her twin.

__

The greasy clothes beneath the elbow, shoulder, and knee pads disappeared at the same time as her chest piece, cargo pants and a dark hood taking its place along with combat boots. Rivet wasn’t a woman of vanity. She didn’t need it, as far as Aryeh was concerned.  
Wiretix inched close to Bolts’ sleeping face, looking her over before returning to Rivet again. The two shared a silent exchange of sorts, the optics falling onto Dassy in search of answers. Dassy readjusted her shell a bit. “I don’t know what’s going on,” she whispered. “She doesn’t tell me anything.”

__

Rivet’s whole body slumped, face falling into hands propped up by knees. Rubbing her face, tired, but still wanting to be awake. Aryeh didn’t like how defeated she looked. It reminded him of civilians awaiting news of their missing family and friends, shut down by a lack of answers or even officially announced deaths. Instead of a death, or a missing child, they both longed for the previously happy Bolts that didn’t feel forced. Bolts was happy still, don’t get him wrong, but… just not the same, and it worried both of them. Rivet took it the hardest. The Red War affected all of them, but Bolts had changed most, and the more recent addition of ‘not quite right’ made it more obvious. In bed, when taking on duo patrols, in loving glances, the worry always lingered. It was a constant stress, and Aryeh needed to be there with his family until the weight of their collecting, shared stresses and problems was lifted off their shoulders. Aryeh would be lying if the stress didn’t irritate him, too. Aside from the tenseness of his lover, which he could handle, his own concern brought a different sort of effect overtime. It didn’t negatively affect any of their relationships, but the strain at least changed their moods enough to alter their daily lives. He wasn’t the best at helping when the issue was more mental than emotional or in physical form, but whatever he needed to do would be done. Right now, he just knew he needed patience with the both of them. Patience for Rivet, affected by the drag of her sister, and patience for Bolts, haunted by unseen memories with an effect that was always shutdown when brought up. Bolts had become their main focus even when not present with the invisible troubles she thought they both didn’t notice whenever they got too strong and she retreated to her apartment in the Tower, and rightfully so. Again, she was family, and he’d stand by her side no matter what it was that she needed. Even if she didn’t realize it herself.

__

Wiretix got his attention, drawing him to the moving hands. ‘Did she do anything new?’

__

‘No. She spent the afternoon, then came inside crying.’ Aryeh signed back. Rivet slowly shook her head, clearly annoyed that couldn’t even get a hint. ‘Just like before.’

__

A scoff left the Hunter. It had no direction, nothing to point at. ‘Just that today? Completely?’

__

‘The bust of Ra’Shedon was stolen,’ Aryeh shrugged. He relayed what Bolts had told him of her experience in the Warlock Exclusive Study Hall when Rivet expressed surprise. She didn’t need to check the network to get a grasp of how it probably looked right now. A master craft residing in Ikora Rey’s public-but-selective study hall, stolen, would spark controversy and shock.

__

‘So there was a stressor,’ Rivet signed. Aryeh gave a bit of a nod. ‘Was there one a few weeks ago?’

__

‘I still don’t know,’ Aryeh shrugged again. Dassy, too, always insists she doesn’t know what started the progressively stronger, spaced out mini freak outs, just letting them know whenever Bolts had one.

__

Dassy hasn’t shared much, but the occasional nights lacking sleep was one thing they got to know about. They couldn’t ask Bolts about it until they had more to go on than what she was doing out of sight. Or wasn’t, rather.

__

The annoyance bristling on Rivet’s shifting face struggled to not direct itself toward him, leaving her unsettled and quiet. Void Light gently danced across and covered her body, and Rivet took to striking the blades against one another in place of her own knives. They’d make a sound, and given how an increased amount of sleep often helps, it was clear neither wanted to disturb her.

__

Rivet stepped around the couch, leaning over as she stroked Bolts’ face. Gently, softly, afraid to wake up her delicately loved sister. “Thank you.”

__

“She’s family,” Aryeh humbled, carefully readjusting his arm on the sleeping body against his side. “I don’t need thanks.”

__

“I know,” Rivet sighed. It seemed they came to accept whispers as a sound they could make.

__

They looked to each other, and the intricate ‘I miss you’ of a single gaze stilled the both of them. Just for a moment, all in mind had been for each other, and that hadn’t quite been the case for some months now. Slowly, Rivet moved along the couch’s side, and the lovers touched heads, silent, eyes shut. Aryeh moved his lips to her forehead, gently placing a little kiss as she moved back to her original lean.

__

Similarly to moments prior, both had the collective thought of their Ghosts, as if they’d just remembered their presence. Wiretix faced away, and Motu seemed a bit awkward. Dassy, however… “Ooooo. K-i-s-s-i-n-g!”

__

At least the tease was quiet. Rivet played along, rolling her eyes and unable to help the warm smile. “Oh, shut up, Sassy.”  
The Ghost was still. More curtly, Dassy gained an attitude, the abrupt annoyance shining through even in the way the little tentacles on her shell moved. “Sassy Dassy is the name.”

__

“We know,” Aryeh quietly chuckled. “Trust me. We know.”

__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woooo-boy. The _problem_ , or PTSD? Both, perhaps? I’m not telling, this is technically the first chapter. I’ll explore on the bust of Ra’Shedon more in the future, but for now, *shrug*. I gotta get back to Zadie and Advi. Don’t worry Exo fans, by the way. You’ll see more of Cayde and actually get to read on Banshee in the future.
> 
> If you need to talk to someone for PTSD, depression, etc., Please do it. I know it’s not much, and most of you probably already have heard or know this, but seeing a therapist can help sometimes. If not a therapist, then other types of therapy help, too. I’m sorry I can’t be any more helpful than that.
> 
> I don’t know if I messed up, as I’m kinda tired right now, but the _problem_ started up a few weeks ago for Bolts, so if I made an error like I keep thinking I might have, now you know.

**Author's Note:**

> PSA in case top was ignored: I misspelt Adiv. It is Adiv, not Advi.
> 
> Ahahahaha. Ha. Poor Adiv. It was going well for the first few days, then as soon as he gets his name it all goes downhill.
> 
> I had so much fun going over this and adding to it. At first, I thought, "Yeah, 11k is a good length." Truthfully, it is. But the issue? I wanted two bits separating Adiv and Zadie for the prologue, and I didn't find it fair that Zadie got like 1k or so words while Adiv had 10k. Soooo.... behold, an extra 8k. This took awhile.
> 
> Unfortunately, the next chapter won't be including either Zadie or Adiv. That doesn't necessarily mean they're gone for good - if you read the description you prolly already got that hint. Don't worry, you'll get to see them again eventually!
> 
> Until then, like I mentioned in the first A/N, "In Living Memory" is a pretty good fic to check out for Dead by Daylight!


End file.
